“Deal!” said MacKenzie. “I knew I’d browbeat you eventually, guy!” Scarborough again had to endure the muscular, manly handshake.
“Well, maybe you’d have gotten results sooner if I wasn’t so busy. As it is now, what with the postponement, I’ve got some time on my hands. I’ll get down to it Monday. Satisfied?”
“Yeah. Now let’s go in and chow down. I’m starved!” They stood and MacKenzie slapped his friend on the back in a good-natured way that almost knocked the scientist over the table.
“I’m sure glad you’re my friend, Mac,” said Scarborough. “I’d hate to be on the wrong side of that hand in a fistfight.”
“Well, Doc, believe me. You’ve come awfully close sometimes, you stubborn bastard.”
They went to the hostess to get their booth.
Chapter 10
The Pan Am Boeing 707 jet landed at 9:43 P.M. at National Airport, Washington, D.C.—almost half an hour late. Woodrow Justine was used to planes being late. He flew a lot in his business. Still, it didn’t mean that, after a while, cooped up in the pressurized cabin with dozens of other cramped, sweaty people, the inevitable bawling baby, and the snot-nosed kids, he didn’t feel extremely claustrophobic and twitchy and in the exact kind of mood to kill somebody.
Tonight, maybe he’d be able to release his tensions in the course of duty.
Carrying only a flight bag, he didn’t have to go and collect any baggage. Justine, relieved to be on the ground, fled the main concourse, past the filed taxicabs and the milling people and into the fine spring Washington, D.C., night. He walked past the specially designated parking lot for VIPs such as senators, congressmen, and diplomats, then past the short-term lot. Across from this stood the station for the elevated Metro-line. Beside a concrete stanchion, across from the Metro, in the long-term parking lot, exactly where it was promised to be, waited a black Williams Motors stretch-limo.
Justine smiled to himself. In most other cities, that auto would stick out like a sore thumb. But here, in National Airport in the country’s capital, where power cruised in splendor, it was just another set of wheels. The sound of a jet taking off over the Potomac River sheared through the air as Justine stepped past the barriers and up to the back door, which opened for him immediately.
“Get in,” a terse voice said.
Justine gently put his bag in first onto the plush floor. The smell of upholstery polish, a French cigarette, and English cologne, the faint touch of air-conditioning, and the gentle squeak of a radio surrounded him as he stepped gracefully in and settled into the leather cushions. The barrier between front and back seat was opaque; Justine could not see the driver, or determine if there was an agent riding shotgun. This made him faintly uneasy. Even on friendly territory, he liked to know the gun emplacements.
“Flight okay?” asked Brian Richards, the man Justine knew as Editor-in-Chief. This polite inquiry surprised Justine. He supposed it was Richards’s way of saying, “Sorry to pry you out of L.A. on such short notice.”
“Made me antsy,” said Justine, grinning.
“Tired?”
“Got some sleep on the plane. Slept like a baby last night. I feel good.”
“Excellent. Then you feel as though you can operate tonight.”
“Shit, Chief, if it’s fucking Everett Scarborough you want snuffed, I can do it last night!” The very thought made Woodrow Justine tingle with anticipation.
Richards’s voice grew an edge. “I told you, Woodrow, never call me Chief. It makes me feel like Perry White of the Metropolis Daily Planet, speaking to cub reporter Jimmy Olsen.”
“Yes, okay, sorry,” said Justine.
“You want some soda? I stocked some A & W for you, and there’s ice. I know you don’t drink alcohol, which is just as well,” Richards’s voice softened to its usual mellifluous tenor. “And you must have misheard me. Everett Scarborough is not on the ticket tonight. You’re going to have to muzzle that for a while ... Scarborough’s a delicate situation, but the Top still need him.”
Justine could not hide his disappointment. “Damn.” He leaned forward and picked out a glass, which he filled with ice and root beer.
“I realize your reasons for hating the man, Woodrow. Maybe you’ll get your wish someday. But that’s not a wish I can grant,” Richards leaned forward, smoke from his Gauloise rippling up and cascading past his serious and thoughtful face. “If you’d have listened properly, you’d have realized this is a Code Four that involves Scarborough—to protect him, not eliminate him.” A gentle smile of derision touched the corners of Richards’s pale and naked mouth. Justine realized that the chief had been toying with him. A slight jab of emotional sadism—just the kind of thing that Richards enjoyed so much. But Justine said nothing, choosing to suppress his anger, if not his disappointment. Richards was the man responsible for everything in Woodrow Justine’s satisfying and rewarding life of money, happiness, and legal murder. Editor Richards had been the man who’d tapped him, trained him, and kept tabs on him. When Brian Richards said “Kill,” Justine killed, and when Brian Richards said “Heel,” Justine heeled.
“Protect him, huh? What man of good taste wants the bastard gone?” Justine took an ice cube in his mouth and began to suck on it.
“Last night, at one of Scarborough’s lectures, a man took out a handgun and tried to shoot him. From the balcony of Tawes Auditorium, University of Maryland. Another man was killed, Scarborough only suffered minor wounds. The assailant escaped.” Richards puffed thoughtfully. “However, due to the sensitive nature of Scarborough’s place in the Editorial Panorama, a few subagents were in the audience. It was the debut of Scarborough’s new presentation. Much more showbizzy ... Sleight of hand, magic to prove various points. Lasers, music, slides—quite entertaining, apparently, and a hit with the audience. At any rate, the subagents pieced together a composite on the assassin—and our associates in the FBI have successfully tracked down the identity of the man, and his place of domicile. We in turn requested that there be no records of this exchange of information. This morning, after careful consideration of the facts on hand, I decided that it would be best to simply erase this particular threat to Scarborough.”
“Aha. And that’s where I come in,” said Justine.
“Yes. An extreme measure ... but I studied the man’s records carefully. No previous criminal record, no ties to subversive or potentially harmful groups. Not a professional, certainly.”
“Sir, I need more concrete information if I’m to perform my function properly.” Justine crunched the ice between his teeth.
Richards raised his thin eyebrows and winced a little at the sound. “Yes. Sorry, Wood, I’m just still musing over the matter. Strange chap, this guy. We’ve got no character description or psychological profile, but from what we can piece together, he’s a sociopath.
“His name is Arnold Klinghoffer. Age: forty-one. He works as a night janitor at Catholic University.” A paper crinkled. Justine realized his boss was reading from a crib sheet he had taken from the jacket pocket of his suit. “Lives in Takoma Park, Maryland. Address is right here. It’s an old house, which his mother left him when she died two years ago. He’s apparently lived there all his life, and he’s unmarried. High school dropout—Northwestern High. Hmm ... what else. Subscribes to a lot of outré magazines, including every UFO periodical available. Neighbors report he keeps to himself, but causes no problems; sort of the neighborhood hermit.”
“Why should this bozo take a shot at Scarborough?”
“As you know, the good doctor gets a number of death threats. He upsets the saucer aficionados a great deal.” Richards smiled ruefully. “He certainly upsets you, Woodrow.”
“What, you mean this asshole Scarborough is so important in the Panorama that you’re going to waste my talents, taking out every saucernik who looks cross-eyed at the great man?”
“No. I considered merely having Mr. Klinghoffer put away for a while. But still, I like to keep things simple—and utilizi
ng your excellent talents is quick and immediate. This way, we won’t have to worry about Klinghoffer trying to blow a hole in Scarborough at the wrong time, ever again.”
“I thought you said that Scarborough’s gonna have to go sometime!”
“Sometime, Woodrow, may be tomorrow—but it may be next century as well. What we must have, however, is control over the situation. We are the Editors, man. We exercise our ability to keep the script trimmed, properly plotted and paced. Absolutely no extraneous detail. And most important, it must be kept in absolute control.” The smoke hovering about the man thickened as he became more excited and sucked harder on his cigarette. “We are the Fates, Woodrow, spinning our web—and snipping it where it gets too tangled. That is our job—but remember, we merely interpret directions dictated from other quarters. And as much as you hate Scarborough, those ‘other quarters’ find Scarborough and his activities much to their liking.”
“The fucking Publishers,” Justine said, shaking his head and chuckling to himself. “One of these days, maybe they’ll come down from on high and explain to me the real reason they’re doing all this shit.” He shrugged.
“Yours is not to reason why, Junior Editor. The Panorama is for the best interests of our country, and make no mistake about that!” Deep wrinkles etched into the man’s face as he spoke, as though reciting a deeply felt creed. “There are forces that would have the greatest nation on earth destroyed. It is our sacred trust to use whatever methods necessary to protect the United States of America!”
“Sure, I guess I shouldn’t complain much. I like my job.”
Well, he was going to get his kill tonight, anyway, even if it wasn’t Scarborough like he’d hoped.
“Yes, I know you do. I trust you’ve been taking your medicine Ms. Cunningham has been giving you, like a good boy?”
“Sure.” Justine pulled out the pale brown prescription bottle from his coat pocket and rattled the loose pills. His thinking tablets, he called them. A light dosage of thorazine, laced with a soupcon of other psycho-actives, all delicately formulated to specifically adjust his biochemistry. “Matter of fact, I’m due to take one tonight. I’ll wash it down with my root beer.”
Richards laid his hand on Justine’s forearm, and shook his head. “There’s more. We have no indication that this Klinghoffer nerd is associated with other parties. But we can’t be too careful, Wood. Find out. No sodium pentathol. Old-fashioned methods.”
“Ah. I take it you want me raw tonight.”
“Let’s just say you can take your medicine afterwards.” Richards gestured outside the window. “We’ve provided a nondescript Chevrolet station wagon, registered, but essentially untraceable. On the passenger seat you’ll find the usual suitcase of goodies. Included are bags of marijuana, crack, and PCP. Plant these on the site of your operation. Prince George’s County is just a stone’s throw away. Hundreds of people are getting blown away every year. Drug-related feuds, bad deals, what have you. The Montgomery County Police won’t know much about Mr. Klinghoffer. We want them to assume this was a drug-related death. Once someone actually finds the body, that is. Keep the noise down to an absolute minimum.”
“Sure. Then what?”
“You’ve got a room booked at the Crystal City Marriott. Courtesy of the Editorial expense account. You sleep late tomorrow, leave the car in the hotel parking lot, and take the Metro down here for a five o’clock afternoon flight back to L.A. Take it easy for a few days!”
Justine held out his hand. “Keys?”
“In the ignition.”
“What’s on tap after my days off? More Panorama Abduction Project work?” Contempt filled his voice.
“You don’t much prefer this sort of thing, do you, Justine?”
“I guess I’m a pretty straight shooter, man. I’d much rather kill enemies and obstructions than mess with regular people’s heads.”
“Justine,” said Richards solemnly. “Our names will probably appear in no history books, but be assured—we are wrapped up in a program designed not only to preserve and protect our country, but to carry its people to a glorious destiny, a shining future. The Project is vital to our goals, and is working splendidly already. Consider yourself a privileged individual, a Soldier of American Integrity.”
Justine reached over and took the sheet of information from his boss, noting that a grainy photograph was clipped to its bottom. “Yeah. Better go get on my horse and ride.”
“You’re a good man, Justine. You can expect your usual bonus.”
Justine opened the door, and softly smiled back at the man in the back seat of the limo. “Hiyo, Silver.”
Chapter 11
Dear Captain MacKenzie,
Something is rotten in Iowa.
My name is Walter K. Mashkin. I’ve been a semiprofessional UFO investigator for several years.
Perhaps you’ve heard of me. I’ve enjoyed your series in True magazine very much, which is why I’m writing you, as well as to the other people in the UFO investigatory world whom I respect.
I try to keep in contact with a network of fellow individuals interested in uncovering the truth about this 40-year spate of UFO visitations of this planet. A correspondent and friend of mine is a Mr. Harry Reynolds of Dubuque, Iowa.
Captain, Harry Reynolds has disappeared.
It is my fear that Harry has been kidnapped by aliens. It is my greater fear that Harry has been the victim of those who run the UFO conspiracy in this country. Whichever the case, I am trying as hard as I can to drum up interest, if not outrage and indignation, amongst those who might help me investigate this matter.
Harry Reynolds made regular shortwave broadcasts. Harry was particularly interested in UFOs and the possibility that forms of extraterrestrial life may be attempting to contact this planet. He often challenged the occupants of the reported flying saucers to come down and speak personally with him. I spoke to Harry regularly via shortwave, occasionally listened to his amateur “program,” and corresponded with him. Twice, I met him at UFO conferences, and I was impressed with his warmth, sincerity, and friendly humanity. So, when I did not hear his broadcasts for two days straight, I was naturally concerned and called his house. When there was no answer, I called the police, who promised me they’d check on him. A later call revealed that the Dubuque police had found the house deserted except for some hungry cats. Harry’s car was still in the driveway; his wallet and identification were still in his bedroom.
I am making arrangements to personally visit Dubuque to look into this matter. However, I have to deal with some personal business first. In the meantime, I thought that my fellow warriors in the effort to discover the truth about the activities of UFOs—and the frightening cover-up on the part of the U.S. government, perhaps all the world governments.
Perhaps, since you are a Midwesterner yourself, and you take an interest in these things, you can actually visit Iowa and do some investigation. If not for Harry, then for the basis of what might be an excellent magazine article.
I look forward to your response, and I hope we have the opportunity to meet.
Yours sincerely,
Walter K. Mashkin
Everett Scarborough put the letter down and. looked across the table at MacKenzie. “You’re not taking this seriously. are you?” The remains of a good solid meal of roast beef, baked potatoes, and Caesar salad lay around them, waiting to be picked up by the waiter. In the dining room of the Tabard Inn, candles flickered warmly by their booth.
“Of course I take it seriously, Ev!” said MacKenzie. “In fact, I took the liberty of calling the Dubuque police. Everything that Mashkin says is true. This guy Reynolds—he’s gone. No trace. Marie Celeste time too—dishes on table, un-flushed commode, lights and radio on. If it’s an alien abduction case, I’ve not heard of one like it. They usually only last a few hours, don’t they? This one’s over a week long.”
“The Travis Walton business during the 70s in Arizona ... right, 1975 it was. That guy was gone for f
ive days! And it was a fairly phony case at that, I might add. I’ve done several chapters in my books about that character. Apparently, he was associated with a business that had contracted with the government to thin out small trees in an area called Turkey Springs. The crew was behind on the job, and the business would be docked if the work didn’t get done on time. I came up with proof of all this by the way ... And Mike Rogers, the crew-chief admits that he’d seen that UFO-Encounter show several weeks before his disappearance. When Travis Walton disappeared, it was very close to Turkey Springs. And the search for him not only gave the Rogers crew an excuse for not getting the job done—it gave the members an excuse for not wanting to go back into the area ... and cause for an extension of the deadline. Thanks to that, the job got completed. Apparently, the crew worked, despite their fears of getting sucked up into a flying saucer.”
“Yeah, I remember your reports on that in your books,” said MacKenzie. “But dammit, man, what does that have to do with this case?”
“Just offering up a previous case, Mac, of a long disappearance.” Scarborough sat back wearily and sipped at the last of his wine. “I think you’ll probably find that Mr. Reynolds disappeared for a reason other than UFO abduction. Maybe he was just a lonely guy who wanted some attention. Lots of possibilities, Mac. The thing that disturbs me is how you, of all people, when a guy disappears, should shout, ‘Maybe he was zapped by a flying saucer and carted off to Pluto!’ Mac, I just think you’re starting to get too credulous! You remember that Francis Bacon don’t you? ‘A credulous man is a deceiver.’ “
MacKenzie frowned. “You calling me a liar, friend?”
“No, no, no. Lighten up, Mac. I think what Bacon realized is that if you swallow everything you hear enthusiastically, then you’re bound to cough up lots of untruths equally enthusiastically. It’s our duty as intelligent beings to bring our own experiences and faculties to bear, our powers of analysis. God, man, we talked about this during Blue Book. And come to think of it, you were the guy that dug up that quote!”
The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy Page 15
