The Officially Unofficial Files of Dr. Gordon B. Gray

by Darcy Fray

  No response. He grabbed the side of the cot and tried to pull himself back up onto the mattress. It was no use. He was spent. Resigned, he slumped back down to the ground and lay waiting for whatever fate had in store for him.

  After what seemed like hours, Dmitry heard the distinct sound of men’s dress shoes walking down the hallway leading to his door. Click, clack, click, clack. Dmitry’s breathing shallowed and his heart raced in anticipation of what was coming next.

  The green door swung open revealing a pleasant-faced, impeccably dressed white male, who walked directly over to Dmitry. The man crouched down, slipped his arms underneath Dmitry’s fetid armpits, and pulled him back up to the cot. As he took a step back, he brushed away imagined filth from the arms of his gray suit jacket and straightened his tie.

  “Water,” Dmitry muttered, expending his remaining energy.

  “You are thirsty?” replied the man. It was an accent Dmitry did not recognize.

  “Please.” Dmitry’s pleading eyes spoke louder than his hushed words.

  The man turned abruptly and exited the room. Dmitry heard the sound of his footsteps fade as he walked away, down the corridor. Then silence. Dmitry feared the man would not return. He wanted to cry, but tears required bodily fluids and his were all but depleted.

  He helplessly stared at the open door and waited until the sound of the man’s footsteps resumed, amplifying with his increasing proximity. The man entered the room carrying a tall glass of water. He approached Dmitry, took a seat next to him on the mattress and gingerly placed a hand behind Dmitry’s neck as he lifted his head toward the glass. Dmitry’s bone-dry lips cracked as he opened his mouth to receive the water. After a mere mouthful the man pulled the glass away.

  “More...please.”

  The man jerked his hand away from the back of Dmitry’s neck allowing his head to fall back to the cot. Dmitry stared up at him in pain.

  “Water,” Dmitry whispered, pleading.

  The man held up the glass as if he were going to pour water into Dmitry’s mouth, before suddenly swinging the glass to the side and emptying it on the floor a full three feet away from the cot. The man answered Dmitry’s desperate eyes with an ice cold stare, then departed, locking the door in his wake.

  Dmitry used every ounce of strength to roll over on the narrow cot, forcing himself to fall to the floor. Unable to break his fall, he impacted with a resounding thump. He dragged his limp body over to the quickly expanding puddle and extended his sandpaper tongue, and lapped at the water like a caged animal.

  •••

  Saint Petersburg, Russia - Bus #3

  Gordon rode the number three bus back to the Grand Hotel Europe. The scare in Dmitry’s apartment had left him feeling jittery. He neurotically felt for the journal in the waistband of his trousers every few seconds, as his eyes dashed furtively about the bus.

  An elderly woman near the front of the bus kept turning around to stare at him. He couldn’t recall if she had boarded at the Mikhailovskaya Ulitsa stop, with him, or if she was already seated when he boarded. Was she the old lady from the apartment next door? He couldn’t recall her face either. Was she following him? Was this all a trap?

  Gordon was so hyper-aware that the slightest sounds were beginning to make him jump in his seat. Calm down. Think. Be sensible. He glanced up toward the front of the bus again. The woman was looking directly at him with her focused, beady eyes. She looked as though she wanted to tell him something. Now he was almost certain that it was the woman from the apartment. Was she an FSB spy? He felt certain he would meet the same fate as Dmitry and Sarah. In a moment of panic, Gordon picked up his cell and dialed.

  Wilkinson answered almost immediately, “Gordon, everything okay?”

  “I think I’m being followed. I’m not sure what to do.”

  “Where are you?”

  “On the number three bus heading back to the hotel. I just came from Dmitry’s apartment.”

  “You were in his apartment? Why didn’t you call earlier? I could have had someone meet you there.”

  “I don’t know, I guess...I, uh--“

  “Never mind. How did you get in?”

  “I met his cousin Jurek in a cafe, by pure coincidence. Apparently his cousin has been taking care of the apartment for him.”

  “Are you sure? Was he there before you arrived?”

  “I...I can’t remember.”

  “Well, did he approach you or was it vice versa?”

  “He approached me.” Uh-oh. Gordon quickly deduced where the line of questioning was leading.

  “Are you being followed?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. There’s an old woman on the bus who keeps staring at me, though. I think she saw me enter Dmitry’s apartment with Jurek.”

  “Don’t get off at your stop. What does this Jurek know?”

  “He knows my name and that I’m a physicist here for the QuantumCon and also that I am writing a book on Zolkin. Oh, and he gave me one of Dmitry’s notebooks.”

  “Is QuantumCon still open?”

  “Yes, the closing party is tonight.”

  “Good. Get off the bus at the stop for QuantumCon. Go into the Expo and stay on the main floor. Make sure you’re surrounded by as many people as possible at all times. I’ll have someone meet you there. How long before you arrive?”

  “Next stop. Four or five minutes.”

  “I’ll call back with instructions,” Wilkinson said, before abruptly terminating the call.

  Gordon already felt better. He breathed a little deeper as he rested his head on the icy window. The rhythm of the passing cars combined with the heavy falling snow was calming.

  A black Mercedes sedan pulled up alongside him, traveling at the same speed as the bus. The other vehicles seemed to fly by the car. Gordon tried to get a look at the driver, but the snow and nightfall provided impenetrable cover. It’s nothing, he thought.

  He lifted his head from the window and shifted his gaze ahead. The old woman was still staring at him.

  The bus slowed as it approached the Expo stop. Gordon rose from his seat and walked forward toward the front exit. As he passed the old woman, she reached out and grabbed his arm. He went rigid with anxiety. Their eyes met. She shook her head no. Gordon panicked. He broke his arm free of her grasp and rushed off the bus, almost tripping over his own feet on the snow-covered sidewalk.

  During his short ride, the storm had developed further. The wind whipped against his bare face, and snow clung to his eyelashes. Gordon glanced back at the woman’s window. She was still shaking her head no. Suddenly, she stopped and pointed directly behind him. Gordon swung his head around. Two well-dressed thick-chested men grabbed him by each arm, patting him down with their free hands. The larger of the two, distinguished by a finely manicured black beard, found and confiscated his cell phone.

  “Help!” Gordon shouted back toward the bus, but it was pointless; the doors were closing and his scream was swallowed by the blustery storm. The two men lifted him inches above the ground as they effortlessly conveyed him back toward the Mercedes. The bearded man opened the back door, forced Gordon’s head down, and stuffed him into the back seat of the sedan.

  “Hello, Gordon.”

  It was his father.

  •••

  Burbank, CA - Mini-Mall

  Fletcher pulled into the parking spot directly in front of PO Boxes & More. It was a small storefront harbored within a typical Los Angeles street corner mini-mall. A “Closed” sign hung from the front door, but Fletcher spied a dim light at the back of the shop that indicated otherwise. He checked his watch. Five minutes early. Promptness is a lonely business.

  The parking lot was empty, save for a few cars parked in front of the Green Machine, one of LA’s ubiquitous marijuana dispensaries. The messenger bag on the passenger seat caught Fletcher’s eye. Time for just one more peek. He removed the pyramid and placed it on the flat palm of his right hand. It was a simple, unadorned object, but try as he mig
ht, he just couldn’t seem to take his eyes off it.

  An LAPD squad car pulled in behind Fletcher and idled with its lights on. Fletcher coolly replaced the pyramid in the messenger bag and gently tossed the bag on the floor. His plates and license were both clean, but the timing aroused his suspicions, and he anxiously anticipated the inevitable knock on the window. After what felt like an eternity, the officer exited the squad car and approached Fletcher, lightly tapping on the window with a heavy black flashlight that could easily double as a bludgeon. Fletcher obediently rolled down his window.

  “Yes, Officer?”

  “License, registration and proof of insurance, please.” The officer’s flashlight scanned the interior of the car, as Fletcher tendered the requested documents. The probing beam lingered on the messenger bag just a little too long for Fletcher’s liking.

  “May I ask what the problem is, Officer?”

  “We’ve had some issues with customers of the dispensary smoking marijuana in this parking lot. What’s your business?”

  “I’m just here to collect my friend Rita who works in that shop,” Fletcher answered, pointing to the storefront directly in front of him.

  “Wait here please.” The officer walked back toward his squad car, speaking into a handheld radio, just out of earshot.

  Fletcher looked back at the storefront. A woman in the front window was watching the scene unfold. She briefly made eye contact with Fletcher before exiting the shop and walking toward his car.

  The officer approached and handed Fletcher his documents.

  “What’s he done now?” Rita asked as she brazenly placed her hand on the officer’s arm. Her Eastern European cheekbones, coy smile and gamine figure provided a welcome distraction.

  “You know this man, Miss?” The officer shined his flashlight in Fletcher’s face.

  “Yes sir, and he’s late...again!” Rita responded enthusiastically. Oscars have been awarded for lesser performances.

  The officer smiled. “You’re free to go, Mr. Crisp. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

  “Not a problem, Officer.”

  Fletcher picked up the messenger bag from the floor and exited the car. Rita hugged him warmly, and they entered the store hand-in-hand.

  “Thank you,” Fletcher said, genuinely relieved.

  Rita yanked her hand free of his grasp. “For what?” Rita’s suddenly acerbic tone and frosty demeanor caught Fletcher off guard.

  “For the hug.” If there’s one thing that works on women, it’s humor. Fletcher spied just a glimmer of a smile somewhere beneath Rita’s stony facade.

  “Do you have the package?”

  Ouch.

  “Yes, but seriously, thanks for coming to my rescue out there.”

  “Wasn’t rescuing you. I hate repeating myself. Do you have the package?”

  Fletcher opened his messenger bag and extracted the pyramid. He passed it over to Rita. “This is for P.O. Box 2398.”

  “I think we’re well past that now.”

  Rita took the pyramid, turned her back to him and walked out of sight.

  Fletcher called after her, “That’s it? Don’t suppose I can take you out to dinner sometime?”

  The dim light in the back of the shop switched off. Fletcher walked toward the front door, saying to himself, “I’ll take that as a maybe.”

  •••

  Saint Petersburg, Russia - QuantumCon

  Gordon hadn’t seen his father, General Thomas B. Gray, in three years, two months and four days. He looked the same, yet different. His facial structure was off, as if he had been disassembled and put back together slightly askew. Gordon simply couldn’t recall his father having such pronounced cheekbones or such a finely-shaped nose. His cropped hair was the same rich golden brown, but his eyes looked different...blue, when Gordon knew them to be hazel. The subtle evolution was surprisingly unsettling, though not as unnerving as a face-to-face meeting with your father, three years after his supposed death.

  Gordon didn’t know what to say or do. The General had never been particularly demonstrative, so a hug seemed unlikely. The car began to gently rock up and down in rhythm with Gordon’s nervous knee.

  “Gordon, you need to listen to me very closely. I’m sure you have many questions, but I’m afraid they must wait. We’ve been following you since your arrival in Russia. You cannot trust the people you think you can trust. What are your orders?”

  Silence. Fractions of unfiltered memories, questions, answers and doubts clouded Gordon’s mind. He opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue was trapped in a state of paralysis. The General recognized the lost expression on his son’s face and placed a paternal hand on Gordon’s knee. The simple gesture brought Gordon back to the moment. The car ceased rocking.

  “Well...ah...I’ve been told by John...ah, Lieutenant General Wilkinson, to enter QuantumCon inside the Expo and to proceed to the main floor show, where the closing party -- Dad?”

  “Yes?”

  “Is Mom alive?” The question existed long before it was spoken and its departure came as a huge relief to Gordon.

  “Gordon, you need to focus. Your life is in danger. Did Jurek give you anything?”

  “This.” Gordon pulled the journal from his waistband and handed it to his father. “But Jurek is FSB.”

  “No, the drunken man and woman you heard shouting in the hallway of Dmitry’s building were FSB and they are waiting for you in your hotel room right now.”

  “But, John told me --.”

  “Forget John, he knows only the story they tell him.”

  “So the journal is real?”

  “As real as this moment. Who knows what we will find in there, but in one day you managed to secure what we have been seeking for the past six months.”

  Gordon allowed himself to indulge in a moment of pride, before immediately hurtling back into his anxiety-riddled reality.

  “What should I do?”

  “Follow John’s directives. His men will see that you’re safe from FSB. Mention the journal to no one. You must go now.”

  “That’s it?” It was not exactly the reunion he had hoped for.

  “Give him back the cell.”

  The bearded man deftly reassembled Gordon’s phone before handing it back to him.

  “We’ll be the ones monitoring your calls now. I’ll be nearby.” His father motioned toward the door. “Go.”

  As Gordon exited the car, the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Gordon, are you at the Expo yet?” Wilkinson sounded genuinely concerned.

  “Walking in now.”

  “And the woman?”

  “Still on the bus. I think I may have overreacted, I’m sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about. I have two men waiting at the Stoli mixer side bar. They will escort you back to your hotel room, where they will have just a few questions for you. Okay?”

  “I guess.” The choked sound of Gordon’s voice betrayed his feelings of doubt.

  “Gordon, I know these men personally. You’re in good hands. You know you can trust me.”

  Gordon wanted to say, “Well, actually, a man we all believed to be dead for the past three years informed me that I can trust no one,” but instead he responded, “I know, John. Thank you.”

  “Get in there, they’re waiting,” he said, before ending the call.

  Gordon entered the Expo and quickly realized that he had left his QuantumCon credentials back in the hotel. An overgrown security guard at the entrance to the main floor stopped him.

  “Need to see your badge, sir.”

  Gordon fumbled around in his pockets, pretending to search for his credentials. “I’m sorry, but I seem to have forgotten my badge back at the hotel.”

  “Sorry, but we can’t let you in without it, sir.” The security guard crossed his muscular arms, suggesting the conversation was over.

  “But I’m a Nobel Award winner in physics, surely that’s enough to get me in?”

  �
�And I’m Albert Einstein. You still need a badge. I’m going to need you to step away from the door, sir.”

  The guard placed his hands on Gordon’s shoulders and gently shifted him to the side so that other attendees could freely enter.

  “Dr. Gray?”

  Gordon spun around to find a middle-aged American male looking at him with a surprised expression.

  “Yes?”

  The man offered his hand to Gordon. “Bob Barchie. I’m responsible for organizing this whole mess,” he said as he made a broad sweeping gesture, encompassing the entire Expo Center. “Is there a problem here?” Bob asked the now-sheepish security guard.

  “This gentleman doesn’t have a badge, Mr. Barchie. Just following protocol.”

  “This gentleman happens to be Dr. Gordon B. Gray. He is the youngest Nobel Laureate of all time and he’s my guest.”

  “Yes, sir.” The guard stepped aside, allowing them both to pass.

  “I wish I had known you would be attending the conference, Gordon. It would have been an honor to have you speak.”

  “Thank you, yes, it was all quite last-minute, really. Would you happen to know where the Stoli Bar is?”

  “Certainly, west side of the hall in the north corner. Under the disco ball, I believe. I would love to join you for a drink, if you have the time.”

  “I’m so sorry, I’m already late for a meeting, but perhaps we can schedule a dinner while I’m in town?” Gordon offered, as he handed Bob a business card.

  “Yes, certainly. I’ll give you a call,” Bob replied, doing his best to disguise his obvious disappointment.

  “Sounds great. And thanks for stepping in back there.”

  Gordon departed abruptly, heading toward the northwest corner of the hall. Barchie watched him walk away, with an unmistakable wistful expression.

  The convention floor had been transformed into a quasi-nightclub, with dimmed lights, sponsored bars, DJs and dancing girls. Physicists aren’t particularly renowned for their moves on the dance floor, so the whole thing had eroded into a bit of a scientific embarrassment, with drunken physicists, hired girls, a seizure-inducing light show and a day-glow DJ blasting bad dub step. The comedic scene allowed Gordon to forget his predicament for a moment and served as reminder of why he never attended convention parties.