“Excuse me, Dr. Flemyng,” he began, “I’m sorry to approach you without warning like this, but it’s important that I talk to you privately—as soon as possible.”
She stopped and turned to look at him. His accent was English, but elided and flattened in the manner of someone who had spent much of his life in the United States.
“What about?” she asked. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Dan Samples. I’m a journalist. I want to talk to you about your husband.”
She felt a chill of unease. She didn’t much like the look of this man, and she was far from sure she wanted to talk to him about anything, and especially not about John.
“What about my husband?” she asked, not hiding the distrust in her voice.
He glanced furtively around, as though afraid they were being watched. “Do you mind if we get out of the open, go somewhere private?”
She stayed firmly where she was. “If you have anything to say to me about my husband, I’d prefer you said it right here.”
He looked uneasy, but didn’t argue.
“I can tell you who killed him,” he said.
“You’re crazy,” she said, once she was over the initial shock of what he’d said. “Nobody killed my husband. He died in a plane crash.”
The man in front of her shook his head almost imperceptibly. “I was with him the night before. He knew something might happen. He didn’t know what, but believe me, Dr. Hemyng, he was scared.”
She passed a hand over her eyes, suddenly feeling alarmingly unsteady. Her instinct was to reach out for support, but there was no one to reach out to except this stranger toward whom she felt a sudden burning anger.
“Mr.… Samples, did you say your name was…?”
“Dan. Dan Samples.”
“Mr. Samples, I hope this isn’t your idea of… of some kind of joke.”
She was aware of how idiotic this sounded, but the words seemed to leave her mouth without even passing through her brain.
“I was supposed to be on that plane with him,” he said quietly, holding her gaze with his own, “but I stayed behind to file something for one of the publications I write for. We planned to meet up again in Boston in a few days. He wanted me to meet you.”
“He never mentioned your name. How do I even know you knew him?”
Samples reached into his jacket and withdrew a Polaroid photograph, which he held out to her. She took it, and saw a picture of John and Dan Samples sitting with a couple of drinks in what looked like the lobby of some not very luxurious hotel. John was talking, Samples listening attentively.
“Okay,” she said, “this picture says you met my husband. It doesn’t tell me any more than that.”
She offered to give back the Polaroid, but he waved her hand away. “Keep it,” he said, “it’s probably the last picture taken of him.”
She hesitated, then slipped the photograph into her coat pocket. “Just tell me what you know, Mr. Samples—or think you know.”
He looked around nervously again, as though afraid they were being watched. “Dr. Flemyng,” he said, “I’m putting my own life in considerable danger just by talking to you. Could we go somewhere private?”
Going anywhere alone with this man was the last thing she intended doing. All the same, she knew she had to hear whatever it was he had to say.
“There’s a cafeteria just around the corner,” she said. “Nobody will pay any attention to us if we talk there.”
Chapter 6
THE MAN WATCHING the rear of the tall and run-down-looking hotel saw a laundry van pull up. He watched as the driver got out and went around to the back of the van. His hand tightened on the phone in his pocket, ready to give the alarm if anything suspicious happened: A van that size could carry an assault team. But he relaxed as he saw nothing more suspicious than racks of dry cleaning in plastic covers and piles of laundry boxes.
With an ease that looked as though it came from years of practice, the delivery man leaned into a rack of hanging coats and dresses and tossed them over his shoulder. In addition, before stepping down into the road, he picked up a big square cardboard box that appeared to be almost weightless, and carried the whole lot through a door marked Deliveries.
The man across the road glanced at his watch. There didn’t seem on the surface to be anything suspicious in all this, but if the van driver wasn’t out again within a few minutes he was going to start wondering.
Inside the building, the pile of dry cleaning on Charlie’s shoulder came to life as he tipped it forward. The man concealed in the clothes landed lightly on his feet. He was about Charlie’s height and of a similar build: Carrying him as though he weighed nothing had taken considerable muscle control.
The same was true of the cardboard box, which hit the floor with a solid thud when Charlie dropped it. He handed the cap he was wearing to the man who stood waiting for it, then took off his windbreaker and handed that over, too. The man slipped it on, then went back out the door through which Charlie had just carried him in.
Across the street the man who was watching relaxed as the delivery van drove off. The area was quiet now. No sign of anything unusual. No sign of anything much at all.
Charlie, meanwhile, was working fast. Inside the cardboard box were ropes, hooks, and rappelling gear. There was also a Heckler and Koch 10-mm submachine gun, a .45 Glock handgun, and a belt of sting and stun grenades. He dragged the whole lot into the elevator just behind him, and pressed the top floor button. By the time he got there he was ready for action. He knew where to find the final short flight of stairs that would lead him to the roof. There hadn’t been time to get him a key, so he just shouldered open the barred and reinforced skylight and crawled out onto the flat rooftop.
Another lookout was positioned opposite the front of the building. The first thing he saw was a figure leaping crazily out into space, apparently a suicide jumping from the roof of the building. It was a moment before he realized that the man was attached to a rope that arced out behind him, and then tightened. By the time the lookout had snatched the cell phone from his pocket and started punching buttons, the figure he was watching had swung into the wall with a force that should have broken every bone in his body, even though he balanced himself to absorb the impact with his feet. But he just pushed out again and fell another six floors almost faster than the eye could follow him. He pushed off the wall again and this time swung sideways, by which time a weapon had appeared in his hand.
The man across the road didn’t have time to utter a word into his cell phone before the din of breaking glass and gunfire filled the air. Seconds later an unreal silence descended. The man knew that his comrades were dead and their mission defeated. His only consolation was that he himself, along with all six of the other members of the backup team, would live to fight another day.
It was only when the wail of sirens and clatter of helicopters broke the vacuum of silence that he realized he was mistaken. He heard shouts from his comrades. One of them ran out of a corner building two blocks away. There was a shot, and he fell.
The man turned, heading for the stairs that he knew led to a back alley and his best chance of escape. But he was barely halfway down when booted feet came thundering up. He glimpsed the silhouetted SWAT team, and then the universe exploded as air ripped through his brain.
Charlie heard the shots dimly in the distance. His thoughts were on other things as he stood guard, as he had been trained to do, over the three bloody corpses and the device the size of a hat box that they had been preparing to detonate when he killed them.
The device, he knew, was an atomic bomb. A crude, homemade affair, but with twice the killing power of the one dropped on Hiroshima. He did not think that they’d had time to arm it, and there was nothing he could see that suggested it was about to go off.
But he could not be sure until the experts arrived, which he knew they would any moment now. Meanwhile he had to keep his nerve and just do the job.
Cha
pter 7
SUSAN AND THE man who called himself Dan Samples sat facing each other across the small Formica-topped cafeteria table. He had immediately accepted her suggestion that they come here, glad of any opportunity to get away from the open space they had been standing in. Neither had spoken until they’d bought two cappuccinos and taken them to the farthest corner table.
As they sat down she said, “I don’t think you told me what newspaper you write for.”
“I don’t write for any newspaper, Dr. Flemyng. I’m freelance. I write for a number of specialist publications, mostly with a subscription readership. I also have my own site on the Internet. Just type in my name on any search engine, you’ll see the kind of stories I cover.”
Susan sat back in her chair, putting more distance between them and narrowing her eyes with skepticism. She suddenly had a distinct and not very flattering picture of the kind of journalist Dan Samples was. A specialist, no doubt, in conspiracy theories of every kind, at least half of which probably involved UFO sightings and messages from other worlds.
He seemed to read the thought in her eyes, and for the first time smiled faintly. “I don’t know if you ever spend much time surfing the Net. It’s full of every crank theory you can imagine, and then some. But in most things, no matter how exaggerated they become, you’ll usually find a kernel of truth somewhere. Sometimes quite a big one.”
“And you have a theory about my husband’s death, Mr. Samples?”
The smile had gone from his lips, and there was a steadiness in his gaze that surprised her slightly. It wasn’t the fixed stare of obsession, just a man trying to convince her to take him seriously.
“I’ve been following up a number of related stories for over two years now. Gradually they all led me toward the same point of origin. That point, Dr. Flemyng, appears to be you.”
She felt a jolt of surprise. “Me? Involve me how? What kind of stories are you talking about?”
He seemed to debate briefly how to go on, then avoided answering her question directly.
“Dr. Flemyng, your research is funded by something called the Pilgrim Foundation, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but what does that have to do with-”
He cut in before she finished.
“The Pilgrim Foundation killed your husband.”
She felt her heart miss a beat. At the same time she wanted to hit him, throw something, express in physical violence the rage and confusion she felt.
“That’s absurd! What in God’s name are you talking about? What conceivable reason would they have to kill my husband?”
“Dr. Flemyng, what you did with Brian Kay—and other patients like him—was access a part of the brain that can no longer be accessed in the normal way. The procedure amounted to a major improvement in the treatment of certain conditions, and in our knowledge of brain function generally. You created a memory, in this case a visual memory, by artificial means.”
“So?” she said tersely. “What does all that have to do with this absurd story of yours?”
“As I understand it, anything you develop as a result of your funding by the Pilgrim Foundation is partly owned by the foundation—correct? And patented by their lawyers?”
“Yes.”
“And you always knew that.”
“It’s perfectly normal practice in funded research.”
“But I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you about the implications of your research for such things as mind control, brainwashing, and much more.”
As she looked at him, she felt her anger being replaced by sheer disbelief.
“Is that what all this is supposed to be about? Mind control?”
“That is what it’s all about, Dr. Flemyng.”
She continued to look at him. A curious urge to laugh out loud began to build in her.
“Why does this somehow not surprise me?” she said.
He didn’t seem disturbed by her response. On the contrary, he seemed to have expected it.
“Please just hear me out. Then decide whether you believe me or not.”
“I think your imagination is getting a little overheated, Mr. Samples. My research is a long way from the kind of science fiction you’re talking about.”
“Are you sure?”
His voice was as calm as his gaze, accepting the challenge of her disbelief.
“There was some remarkably advanced work under way in Russia before the collapse of the Soviet Union,” he continued. “When the wall came down, it was no surprise that the old enemies decided to join forces. Which was very convenient for the West, because it turned out the old enemy was ahead of us—mainly because they had always enjoyed a certain advantage in hushing up their failed experiments. There are still things you can get away with in the East more easily than in the West. As your husband found out last week. That’s why they chose to kill him there.”
“You’re saying they killed him because of what you told him?”
“Yes.”
“For heaven’s sake, what did you tell him?”
“I told him about the story I was working on, which was how I came to be there.”
“Which happened to coincide with this outbreak of flu, to which my husband happened to get called.”
“That’s right.”
“I always find coincidences hard to believe, Mr. Samples.”
He shrugged as if to say he couldn’t help that.
She turned in her chair, as though this thing was beyond a joke now, beyond even personal insult, beyond anything she any longer had a name for. She felt restless and anxious to get away from him.
“Mr. Samples, you’re talking paranoid nonsense.”
She was on her feet, ready to leave. He remained seated, looking up at her.
“Your husband believed me.”
She looked down at him coldly. “You have a photograph, but no record of this conversation? No tape? Notes even?”
He shook his head. “The thing is, Dr. Flemyng, that neither your husband nor I together could prove anything—without you. Only you can unravel the truth. He said he’d talk to you when he got back, and he was sure that you’d cooperate.”
She thought back to their last phone conversation. John had said that he had “things to tell her,” but that could have meant anything. And yet, she remembered, he’d sounded strange. Tired, yes. But something more?
A door banged. Samples flinched and his eyes shot fearfully in the direction of the noise. When he saw it was just a couple of students coming in, he turned back to her.
Slowly she sat down again.
“You have no tape of this conversation, no notes. You must at least have some evidence of what you’re asking me to believe.”
“I have extensive documentation. To an outsider, frankly, it wouldn’t mean a great deal—otherwise I would already have made very public use of it. But to you, Dr. Flemyng, it will be a shocking revelation of how your work has been abused.”
“Why don’t we just cut to the chase? Show me this ‘documentation.’ “
“I’m not foolish enough to carry it around with me. But if you’ll come with me…”
“I’m not going anywhere with you, Mr. Samples. I don’t know you, and you don’t exactly inspire me with confidence.”
He shrugged as though he regretted her attitude but found it reasonable, and got to his feet.
“I’ll get it to you, Dr. Flemyng. Depend on it. When you’ve had time to study it, I’ll get in touch with you again.”
“What if I want to get in touch with you—for whatever reason?”
He shook his head. “The fewer people who know how to find me, the better. I know you still suspect I’m crazy, or paranoid, or maybe up to some scam—but you’ll change your mind. I’ll be in touch.”
Before she realized it, she was looking across the cafeteria at the door swinging shut behind him. That was pretty good, she thought to herself: He’d managed to walk out on her before she could walk out on him. A neat piece of gamesma
nship.
For a moment she thought of going after him, but sensed it would be a mistake. If he was as crazy as she feared, she’d never get rid of him after handing him a victory like that. A moment more and it was too late to do anything; she’d never find him out there now.
“Is everything all right, Dr. Flemyng?”
The heavy Czech accent came from so close to her ear that she was startled. It was George, who ran the cafeteria. She looked at him blankly.
“Yes,” she said, “fine.”
Then she followed his gaze and understood why he was asking. When Samples left she must have got to her feet again without realizing it. The suddenness of her movement had jarred the table, but she hadn’t even heard the crash of their coffee cups hitting the floor.
Chapter 8
CHARLIE STARED at the ceiling. It was almost dawn. Debbie slept peacefully at his side. They had fallen asleep around two-thirty, but he had woken just after four as abruptly as if someone had fired a shot in the room.
He looked at her: Chestnut-colored hair spread out in long, thick tresses on the pillow, framing a face that was both delicate and sensuous. He thought of waking her, but decided against it. Instead he slipped out of bed, pulled on a robe, and went through to his living room.
His mouth was dry, so he opened a small bottle of mineral water, then lowered himself into a deep, square, comfortable armchair. He let his head fall back and closed his eyes. Thoughts and images flowed through his brain in a chaotic stream of consciousness. Why a “stream”? he wondered idly. More like a river in full flood, dams and bridges swept away. You had to make an effort to impose order. You put yourself together, he reflected, out of the pieces you could salvage, assembling them like a child’s construction set.
But who chose the pattern? Who decided what you built?
Odd thought. Where had that come from?
He opened his eyes. It was almost morning. He got up and walked over to the long glass wall dividing his apartment from the balcony. A thin gray mist was drifting in from the sea, just visible now in the first light.
The Discrete Charm of Charlie Monk Page 4
