The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy

by David Bischoff

  “Bob Geldorf?”

  “The guy who organized that Rock Relief benefit for the famine.”

  “Um... oh yes. I believe Diane talked about that once.”

  “You really should pay more attention to all current events, Everett.” She leaned over and whispered the rest. “Not just UFOs.”

  “Well, it would seem,” said Scarborough, whispering as well, “that I had the right subject.”

  “You were just on the wrong side of it.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  “Stubborn to the last.”

  “You bet.”

  She craned her neck around for a peek behind them. “Any sign of your friend?”

  “No. Don’t worry. There’s a mirror right over there. I’ve positioned myself so that I can see anyone who comes in the front door.”

  “How clever of you.”

  “I thought so.”

  They were waiting for a friend of Scarborough’s. A friend he felt could be trusted. A friend, in fact, whom the Others had suggested. His name was Craig Steffan, and he was a member of the army of lawyers who worked Washington, D.C. Craig Steffan’s specialty was aeronautical law, and this was the capacity in which Scarborough had gotten to know him, as he researched books. Steffan had been a fan of Scarborough’s books; and, as an aficionado of UFO lore, he had offered to help the author-debunker in his researches, and a friendship had developed.

  Sure enough, when Scarborough called from Arizona, not only was Steffan happy to hear from him, he was expecting his call.

  “Oh yes, Everett. Davis called and told me to trust you if you called—despite your present reputation,” Steffan had said with his trained enunciation.

  Davis!

  The gall! Still, Scarborough calmed himself and accepted the fact… swallowed the fact… again that Lowell Davis was working with the Others, ostensibly on the same side as himself. Apparently, Davis had not only endorsed Scarborough, he’d suggested to Steffan that it was fairly likely that, in fact, Scarborough would call. “I’m not entirely certain I buy Lowell Davis’s alien line—but as a lawyer, I can certainly see the holes in the government’s case against you. And as a friend, I’m more than happy to help you.”

  The help, primarily, would consist of a place for Scarborough and Manning to stay while they did what they had to do in Washington, D.C.

  It was strange being back in Washington, that was for sure. Scarborough felt he could get in the rental car, drive up Connecticut, cut over to Wisconsin, and then angle on up River Road to his Bethesda home. Put on some Beethoven… no, better some Mozart, and just drift back in his Eames chair into a big fat Victorian novel.

  Still, it was nice being back in an area with some moisture in the air. May was one of Scarborough’s favorite months in D.C.—the others being April, of course, with the cherry blossoms, and then October and November. It almost made Scarborough forget for a moment the hell he’d been through... the tension he was going through.

  The Others had gotten them here safely.

  That, effectively, had been what had happened, anyway. And thank God they hadn’t had to travel cross-country in that Winnebago. Not enough time, they had said, and Scarborough had had to concur.

  The Others had provided them with fake ID, plane tickets—even an American Express card to use and a reservation for a car at Dulles International to use it with. That was the plan for Scarborough and Manning, anyway.

  Camden went along, of course. But for him, there was a destination other than Adams-Morgan…

  “There he is,” said Scarborough, after glancing up to the mirror he’d been using again.

  Just coming in the door was a man wearing a light Burberry raincoat against the light drizzle that had been falling in D.C. that day. Although Scarborough knew that he was in his early forties, because of his rounded features and lack of wrinkles, Craig Steffan looked like he was barely out of his twenties.

  “Geez—talk about yuppie,” said Marsha. “That guy looks like the paradigm.”

  “The refugee from ‘thirty-something’—that’s what I call him,” said Scarborough. “But past that K-Street lawyer facade there beats the heart of a... well, a K-Street lawyer. But a fairly reasonable version of same.”

  Craig Steffan, Esquire, was a neat, plump fellow with a roundish head topped with corn-silk blonde hair, fashionably cut. He wore a blue tie at the top of a buttoned white shirt, and red suspenders peaked out from the flapping Burberry. He wore dark, businesslike glasses and his black shoes were shined to a glossy finish. He carried a black briefcase; not Gucci, but something of similar quality.

  As he walked, his eyes swept the room. But they leapt right past the place where Scarborough and Manning sat.

  “Well, shows our disguises are good, anyway,” said Scarborough, lifting a hand and giving it a small, inconspicuous wave.

  That caught the lawyer’s attention right away.

  He smiled and walked right over to the table.

  “I love Ethiopian food,” he said. “There’s this spicy cottage cheese and spinach dish here that’s just delightful. I think I’m going to have to order it.” Craig Steffan shook Scarborough’s hand and cordially greeted Marsha Manning as well.

  “I’m afraid it’s a bit of a ruin, but there’s plenty left here,” said Marsha, gesturing to the large tin tray that held the various stews heaped upon the injera, which was stretched out like very white and spongy pizza crust. “I’m stuffed.”

  “Excellent. Mmmm. Good choices, too!” The chubby lawyer ripped off a chunk of bread and dipped it into a pile of peppery red lentils.

  “Craig,” said Scarborough, “thanks for helping us out.”

  “My pleasure, Everett!” said Steffan, enjoying the food. “I’m just surprised I hadn’t heard from you sooner.”

  “It didn’t seem appropriate...” said Scarborough, feeling a little awkward.

  “I understand. Goodness knows, in the kind of situation you’ve been in, Everett, I wouldn’t know who I could trust either.” He looked around for a waitress, then seemed to reconsider. “Oh. Sorry. Didn’t occur to me, you might feel uncomfortable here, in a public place.”

  “Don’t want to stay here too long,” said Scarborough. “But I think we’ll be all right.”

  “Excellent. I haven’t got much back at the house, and I’m famished and quite thirsty. When I get you back I’ll have to go make a run at the store for supplies.”

  Craig Steffan caught the attention of their waitress. She came forward, and again Scarborough was struck by the beauty of Ethiopian women.

  They were dark ebony with dark straight hair and their features were Caucasian with narrow noses, thin lips, and elegant chins. And those dark eyes were absolutely opalescent...

  Steffan ordered an Ethiopian beer and the cottage cheese dish he’d been hankering after. When the waitress was gone, he turned back to Scarborough; continuing the soft quiet voice he had used before, he said, “You know, lots of lawyers are slavering after your case.”

  “What? To prosecute?”

  “No, no! Of course not. It’s pretty obvious that something’s fishy, of course. Don’t think that everyone’s after you, Everett.” The beer arrived. Steffan poured it neatly into the provided glass. “The sort of law I practice won’t be of much help to you, but I can put you in touch with the absolute best defense attorneys.”

  “That of course is appreciated. But right now, there are a few other things we have to do.”

  “Yes. Well, I don’t know exactly what I’m able to accomplish for you, but I’ll be happy to do whatever I can.” He swallowed some of his beer, and then smiled over at Marsha Manning. “The same with you, Marsha. I know some fine military lawyers as well. They’ll work in conjunction with Everett’s lawyers.”

  “I appreciate that, Mr. Steffan.”

  “Craig. Please, feel free to call me Craig.” Thoughtfully, he took another sip of his beer. “Davis mentioned the possible presence of the infamous Jake Camden.�
��

  “Jake’s up north, on another mission. We’ll fill you in on that later.” In fact, Scarborough was feeling a little bit uncomfortable discussing these matters out here in the open. “Maybe we can save actual details for later.”

  Steffan’s eyes shone with appreciation of their situation. “Yes, of course. I must say, I am very happy indeed to see you looking so good.” Steffan blinked and then looked a little uneasy. He looked around him.

  “Something wrong?” said Marsha.

  “I was just wondering if paranoia is catching.”

  Everett Scarborough smiled sadly and wryly. “In our case, it’s not paranoia. Somebody really is after us.” He tapped the table nervously, and leaned confidentially toward the lawyer. “Fortunately, it would seem that we have heavenly protectors.”

  Craig Steffan’s eyebrows rose.

  His Ethiopian cottage cheese and spinach and spices had arrived.

  Chapter 30

  Manhattan again.

  The city of skyscrapers, thought Jake. The city of hell-scrapers.

  When he got off at National Airport with Everett Scarborough and Marsha Manning, Jake Camden got on the Washington, D.C. Metro Blue Line to the newly renovated and malled Penn Station, where he caught a Metro liner. The trip was only two and a half hours long, so by early evening he was pulling into the newly-malled Pennsylvania Station, New York City.

  A real zoo. Lots of plywood, lots of chaos. Numerous street people and winos hanging around. The smell of urine mixed with the scent of pizza and hot dogs, churning up in that usual soggy cement smell of New York, New York.

  Jake hopped off the Amtrak train, scampered past the Long Island trains and into the 34th Street IRT Subway station, where he caught a Number One train, a local, going up Broadway to the West Side.

  It was seven-thirty, well past rush hour, so the subway train wasn’t crowded. The usual gaggle of upper-and lower-scale passengers sat or hung on metal hangers with that armored New York look.

  Jake liked New York. He liked the anonymity, he liked the excitement—and usually, he liked the danger. This time, however, he’d had a bellyful of danger, and so the surly, criminal-looking sorts often found on the New York subways bothered him.

  No problem. It was a short trip. He just stayed awake and alert, like on the plane and the train. Jake usually associated New York City with drinking, but he had endured the train ride without even a beer and he’d passed the Penn Station bar without going in for his usual shot and a chaser.

  Mick wasn’t much of drinker, so he’d have a companion here who wouldn’t steer him wrong.

  Jake got off at the 106th Street station, and walked a half block to the West End Avenue apartment building that was his destination.

  Inside the old, musty anteroom, he scanned the bank of names and buzzers, selected the one with the cracked plate marked M. Aragones, and pushed the button.

  “Yeah,” said a brusque, nasal New Yorker voice.

  “Mick. Jake.”

  “Jake. How’s it look behind you?”

  “Looks pretty clear, Mick.”

  “Okay. Come on in.”

  The front door buzzer sounded, and Jake Camden pushed himself into the foyer. It was a large apartment building with an expansive black-and-white checkered floor, and art deco columns thick with ivory paint. At a scuffed table by a mirror a Puerto Rican doorman sat, reading the sports section of the New York Daily News. Near the doorman was a small door to a small elevator. The doorman gave Jake a cursory glance as he clicked across the tiled floor, then returned to his paper as Jake punched the elevator door. The apartment building had a genteel urban half-grubby feel to it; it had that New York feeling of always being old. It smelled of old floor wax and coffee with a hint of mildew.

  The elevator looked as though it were from Roman times. As the door closed and the mechanics started, it clunked upwards on a creaky cable, feeling like a rattling deathtrap. It clanked upwards fifteen floors, then disgorged Camden at the foot of some narrow steps. Camden took the steps up to the topmost part of the building and walked down a dimly lit corridor to a metal door. His knocking echoed through the hallway.

  “Yeah?” a gruff voice answered, muffled by the thick metal.

  “Hello, Mick. Jake here.”

  “How’s it look out there?”

  “Clear.”

  “Okay.”

  A deadbolt clacked. Jack could hear Mick Aragones unlocking the numerous latches and locks on his door. Finally, the door opened a crack, and a dark, blood-shot eye peered out of the shadows. It squinted at Jake to make sure of his identity, and then, satisfied, it withdrew.

  The door opened.

  Jake was met with an immediate library smell, touched with the smell of bacon, coffee, and moldering books and magazines. He stepped in onto the nap of a frayed Oriental rug. Almost immediately the door was closed behind him, and Michael “Mick” Aragones swung around, a smile plucking up the comers of a face that seem reluctant to part with any other expression short of a sneer.

  “Jake.”

  “Mick.”

  Jake extended a hand and Mick shook it. “How you been keeping, guy?”

  “Scraping by. You want some coffee?”

  “Sure. “

  No danger of drinking here. Mick had given up alcohol a few years before. Not because of any particular drinking problem, but because of an ulcer. How he was able to stomach coffee, Jake never knew, but the man certainly still drank that stuff, although with milk now and not as dark and thick and Turkish-y as it used to be.

  Mick scuttled back to a dimly lit kitchen, giving Jake a chance to reacquaint himself with Mick’s apartment.

  Like everything else in this area of the apartment building, it was narrow. But it wasn’t one of those “railroad car” narrow New York apartments that went on forever. It consisted of a narrow living room, a narrow kitchen, a narrow bedroom, and a narrow bathroom. Oh, and on the outside, past the narrow windows, a narrow balcony. Mick had the venetian blinds and the drapes closed, but when they weren’t, you could get a fine view of the New York City rooftops and the tops of the trees in north Central Park.

  As though the living room were not narrow enough, Mick had rendered it even narrower with a stereo, long shelves of records, stacks and piles of books, magazines, and newspapers, and other assorted effluvia. On the other side, amidst all of this, was a sunken couch and a single floor lamp, switched on now. Copies of Time, Rolling Stone, and the new Alvin Toffler book were winged open on various parts of the Couch, and the pillow at one end looked freshly indented. Clearly, Jake had caught Mick in the middle of something he did a lot of: reading.

  “I forgot. You want milk and sugar in the joe?” called Mick from the kitchen.

  “Just a splash of milk.”

  “Right.”

  Mick came back holding two cups of coffee. “Have a seat, chum.” He gestured over to a rocking chair. Jake moved novels by Charles Williford and Jim Thompson off the padded rocker, and sat down as requested. Mick handed him the coffee. “Kava. Anti-acid. All the ulcer will let me drink these days.”

  “I was wondering about that.”

  “Gotta have it, though. Gotta have something. Not smoking now, either. Fact, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t light up one of those death sticks of yours in here, this time. I’m still kinda iffy on the subject.”

  In fact, Jake had just been reaching for a death stick. Yeah, come to think of it, cigarette smoke was the missing ingredient in the usual mix here. That, and the usual overflowing ashtrays were absent. Jake could have used a cigarette, but on the other hand, he needed Aragones cooperation and help much more.

  “Sure, Mick. So you talked to Davis, huh?”

  He took the coffee and sipped it. Pretty bad, but it did the trick.

  “Yeah. That’s what I said on the phone, isn’t it?”

  “Sure was. Just easing into the subject.”

  Mick gave a slight scowl. “You know me. No easing into subjects with
this New Yorker. You take ‘em by the ears and shake ‘em.”

  Jake grinned. “Gee—and you started off so polite!”

  Mick shrugged. “That’s cause it’s you, Jake...” His eyes gleamed with ferocity. “And cause this little business might not only meet me up with some aliens and get me a piece of your story… but get me Max Schroeder as well.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “You bet I would.”

  Mick Aragones was a tall, slender man with vulture-sloped shoulders. He had a pale, sallow face with a dark beard and long, deep black hair with no signs of grey, despite the fact that he was forty years old, maybe more. He wore an earring. The hair was pony-tailed in the back, and with the dark beard, the dark-tinted glasses, and the totally black outfit, it gave Aragones the look either of something of a beatnik or, with the addition of a scarf, an eye patch, and perhaps a peg leg, some exotic eighteenth century pirate.

  He put his own cup of coffee on the arm of the couch, then went over to the record player, pulled out a record from its sleeve, and put it on the turntable.

  “Still not doing CDs, huh?”

  “Feh. CDs are okay for some electronic music maybe. But records still get the kind of sound I need.”

  Jangling chords and dissonance, strung together by the occasional melody, marched out from the speakers. Philip Glass? Stockhausen? John Adams? Difficult to say, but it was the kind of music that Aragones not only reviewed for various magazines, but personally reveled in.

  “I don’t suppose you could play some blues, could you?”

  “I want you to hear this, Jake.”

  They listened a moment, as the theme repeated, then fragmented—then Aragones said, “Doesn’t that just say it all about the dilemma of the soul of humanity in modern-day society?”

  “I don’t know—Howlin’ Wolf strikes me as a little more appropriate to my own situation.”

  “Okay. I like the blues. And jazz—as you know... just wanted to see what you thought of that. I mean, it has an alien feel, doesn’t it, Jake?” Mick gave Jake an inquiring look. “You actually met them yet, Camden? Davis said that you well might have, by now.”