“Uh-uh. Not me. Scarborough has, though.”
“What are they, like, man?”
“Pretty much like you and me, I guess. That’s what Scarborough says, anyway.”
“Profound.” Aragones nodded as though this was something that he had privately suspected, and then went on to look for a blues record.
Michael Aragones, like Camden, was a journalist, and a journalist who had dealt extensively with UFOs and the outré in his work. However, unlike Jake who had been employed with the National Intruder, Aragones was a freelancer who wrote for a number of magazines and newspapers. He’d even been a stringer for the New York Times, and had connections there; although the New York Post had tended to take his stories more than an august journal like the Times.
Jake had met him at UFO conferences, and they’d gotten along famously, particularly in Mick’s more dissolute days.
Aragones, although personally sympathetic to the notion of the possibility of intelligent life on other planets, and, more specifically, to the possibility that intelligent life was visiting Earth, had never taken to the whole notion of alien from the very beginning. When Maximillian Schroeder had jumped on the bandwagon, there had almost immediately been an intellectual and personality clash between the two men—-especially after Aragones reviewed the first “nonfiction” book Schroeder wrote.
Since then, the relationship had deteriorated to the point that Aragones—infamous for his paranoia and conspiracy articles and his antiestablishment sentiments—claimed that Schroeder was actually working for some bizarre intra-government conspiracy and had sicced spook-hounds on him. Aragones claimed that he was being followed, that his phone was being tapped-even suggested once that the water going into his apartment building was being drugged.
Needless to say, Maximillian Schroeder was not pleased with these accusations; he fought Aragones in print and in public and even once threatened to sue. However, no suit was ever pressed and the enmity merely simmered.
“So what’s the scoop then, man,” said Mick Aragones now, snapping his fingers—hurry, hurry—at Jake. “So, I’m right then. Schroeder’s one of the bad guys?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“So spill it, chum! I’ve been waiting years for this!” Aragones scrunched back and forth in his chair, looking extremely agitated and excited. “What’s in it for me?”
“A piece of the action, Mick. Nothing more and nothing less. But we’re not talking kindergarten here. This is going to be dangerous. Damned dangerous.”
“Look, you think I’ve felt real safe these past years? Hell no!” Aragones’ lanky body stretched back in the chair. “This’ll be a relief.”
“It might get you killed, friend.”
Aragones shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe that’ll be a relief, too.”
“Hell, I bet you’ve got some more good writing in you, Mick. Why so fatalistic?”
“You don’t know the pain of paranoia, Jake.”
Jake shook his head. “Oh, I’m learning. I’m learning quickly.”
“So the thought just hit me—why me?”
“Because you can be trusted... And because all the work you’ve done, all your paranoia—may well payoff.”
Aragones was on the edge of his seat. “You’re making me wait, Jake. I’ve been waiting too long.”
Jake told him.
Or anyway, Jake told him as much as he’d been instructed by Scarborough to tell him.
When he finished, Aragones’s usually narrow eyes were wide.
“Mother of God!” he said. “What a story! And expose Schroeder! But I’ve been looking for that kind of proof for years! Where the hell are we going to find it?”
“The Boys in Black told that to Scarborough, too. And that’s another reason why we need you, Mick. You’ve done a lot of research into Schroeder’s past, haven’t you?”
“You bet I have. I’ve got a whole thick file on him.”
“His family’s got some kind of estate in Massachusetts, right?”
“Yeah, up above Cambridge. Right out of Boston! But why...”
“Well, according to my sources, that’s where we’re going to find the stuff we need. And I’m talking about solid evidence of Maximillian Schroeder’s complicity in the whole UFO abduction scam. Evidence that will hold up in court and in the press. Evidence that will bring Schroeder—and maybe this whole business—tumbling down. And I’m giving you a chance to participate.”
“I want it! I want it bad.”
“Good then. You’ve got information on his family estate?”
“Information? I’ve got the whole goddamned floor plans!”
Jake smiled. “I’m beginning to see more and more that I was sent to the exact right place!”
Chapter 31
Craig Steffan had a townhouse on Willard Street between Eighteenth and New Hampshire. It was here that he took Everett Scarborough and Marsha Manning after dinner. It was dark, but the evening streetlights had come on, and although it was only Tuesday, there was still plenty of traffic in the streets, plenty of people going from bar to restaurant or bar to bar.
Scarborough had always found this to be a particularly pleasant area—except in winter—because of the sidewalk dining and drinking at the various cafes and restaurants. Rather like a little bit of Paris, a city which Scarborough had visited with his wife, Phyllis, when she had been alive. Yes, Phyl had loved all of Europe—but particularly Paris.
Since she had died, he hadn’t been able to cross the Atlantic, not even when he’d been offered a book-signing tour of the British Isles.
Yes, he thought as they passed the cafes and he held tightly onto Marsha’s hand, her scent mixing with the flower-fresh May evening in Washington. If I ever get through this, I think I might actually be able to go again. I might be able to do a lot of things, if I get through this.
They passed Florida Avenue. If they had angled down that way, they would have hit Connecticut Avenue, and then a turn would have taken them to another pleasant area of D.C.: Dupont Circle. Instead, they went a little ways down Eighteenth and took a left on Willard. Craig Steffan’s house was about halfway down the block, a pleasant nineteen-forties house tucked away amidst a collection of unostentatious townhouses.
“You have to forgive me for not picking you up in my car,” Steffan said, “but you find a parking place in a legal area down here, you stay, Marsha. I’m certain Everett understands.”
“Oh, indeed I do,” said Scarborough. “Besides, I don’t think that our pursuers are much likely to think to look for us here.” Nonetheless, he looked around, feeling a trifle nervous. “Although I imagine they do know of our acquaintance, Craig. Just a warning...”
Craig Steffan waved it off. “Glad to help out, my friend. I wish you had called sooner.”
Steffan pointed and they walked up stone steps. He pulled out his keys, opened up the front door, clicked on a light, and ushered them in.
“Nice!” said Marsha.
“A bachelor corporation lawyer in Washington, D.C. does okay,” said Scarborough.
“Not as well as a best-selling writer!” laughed Steffan, closing the door behind them.
The foyer and the steps were finished in wood; beyond was a set of steps to the left, and to the right a sitting room furnished in well-kept antiques and tasteful paintings. In the dining room was a vase of fresh-cut flowers. The place had the smell of books and erudition to it—and indeed, as Scarborough remembered from his previous visit or two here, the halls and rooms were lined with bookcases, the tables and end tables well-stocked with magazines and journals. As he peeked through a door, just beyond and down a foyer Scarborough could see a study, replete with computer, printer, and scattered papers and books. He felt a little better that Steffan wasn’t always Mr. Neat.
“And no, I don’t keep house myself. I have a very good woman come in.”
“Very nice indeed,” said Marsha. “You need a girlfriend if my current relationship doesn’t work out?”
<
br /> Despite himself, Scarborough felt a little pang of jealousy. That Davis business was still bothering him a bit, it would seem. Damn, and he thought his rational self had things under control there. Once again, his heart, it seemed, was proving to be an entirely separate animal.
Scarborough snorted. “Or if your current paramour ends up in the Potomac River!”
“Aha! A lovely relationship, I see. Well, I’ll just make sure to put you in the honeymoon suite upstairs.” He beckoned them through into the kitchen. “Now then, how about brewing up some tea, and soberly discussing the situation.”
“Sounds good,” said Marsha. “Earl Grey for me, if you please.”
“Some strong English Breakfast for me,” said Scarborough. “With maybe some schnapps or something on the side.”
“Maybe we’d better concentrate on that sober part of Craig’s suggestion,” said Marsha. “I think we’ve had all too many bad experiences involved with alcohol from the time we met at Captain Eric MacKenzie’s.”
Scarborough nodded. “Yes. Automatic, I guess. We’re going to have to be pretty sober for what’s coming up next, aren’t we?”
Craig Steffan put the kettle on. “Yes, Everett. I was very, very sorry to hear about Mac. A true loss. Those poker parties of yours shall remain classics, the heights of which we’ll never be able to reach again without Mac.”
Scarborough sighed and folded into a kitchen chair. He put his hands to his head. “You know, I don’t think I’m going to feel the full weight of my grief until this whole thing is finished.”
“I suspected you weren’t taking it particularly well.”
“I don’t think I’m taking any of this particularly well,” muttered Scarborough into his hands.
“Goodness, man. You’re alive. You’ve survived. That’s what counts. I don’t know if I would have been able to say the same thing at this point if I were you. It’s likely I wouldn’t have been able to say anything at all. I’d be quite dead.”
“I suspect I’d be dead as well—if not for my particular guardian angels.”
“You mean—the Others.”
“Yes. Them.” Even now, Scarborough felt odd using that term. The Others. It felt phony, fake... like everything he’d been trying to expose during his career as a skeptic. Still, what other terms did he have? The Visitors? The Extraterrestrials? The Bug-Eyed Monsters? Even “Them” was the name of an old fifties science fiction movie about giant ants.
No. He had to accept it. He’d stepped into areas he’d always denied even existed in reality. And if he slowed down, stopped too long to consider the bizarre convolutions involved, the implications to his previous reality, he was afraid that his whole facade of sanity would just crack and crumble away, dragging the shreds of his identity along with it.
“I don’t know. You’ve been pretty resourceful,” said Marsha. “You talked me into helping you!”
Scarborough looked up and smiled warmly. “I tried to talk you out of it. But you insisted.”
“Love gets you into all kinds of problems. Doesn’t it, Mr. Steffan.”
“Ah yes. I can certainly sympathize with that. But these Others, Everett. You say they seem to be... well, for want of a better word, quite human. That would imply a homogenization of intelligence in the universe, wouldn’t it?”
“I guess so. I don’t know... The scientific implications haven’t exactly been tumbling around in my mind too much yet. But they had mentioned specifically that intelligence on Earth was the result of an ancient galactic seeding.”
“Fascinating. I hope these folks will sit still for an interview afterwards.”
“Not likely. At least, not for quite a few decades, anyway. They want to leave here. But first, they want to accomplish two things. They want to cover their tracks.” Scarborough chuckled lowly. “And they want to wipe out the bad PR they’ve been getting, and expose the source.”
“Source? You mean the government?”
Scarborough turned to Manning and they exchanged “I wonder if he’s going to believe this one” looks.
The kettle started whistling.
“Why don’t you pour the tea,” said Scarborough. “And then we’ll outline some of what they told us... And exactly what we need of you.”
“That,” said Steffan, as he got up. “Would be absolutely splendid.”
Scarborough was on his third cup of tea and wondering if maybe he’d need some booze anyway tonight to put himself to sleep, when he finished telling Craig Steffan the gist of the story.
“Well then,” said Steffan after a long moment of silence. He looked as though he were having definite difficulty assimilating the information. “That’s quite something. So indeed you need me more than just to provide you a place to stay.”
“That’s right. That’s where your legal connections come in, Craig,” said Scarborough. “As we spoke of before, Jake Camden, Marsha, and I are going to need legal help and we need to start working on that now. We need to be vindicated. But in order to do that, we have to expose the workings of this strange claque the Others have been fighting.”
“Mind-boggling... Talk about mega-conspiracies.” Steffan’s tea sat cold and ignored in front of him. “This really takes the cake! But surely it’s much too large!”
“It is. It would be an impossible task to tackle the entire thing at this time. God alone knows the extent of its tentacles. Staggering. Absolutely staggering...”
“Sounds as though it’s certainly worth a book or two.”
“At least. But that’s not our concern at this moment. Operations White Book and Black Book are. And, more specifically, Brian Richards and his superior in the group known as the Publishers, and to themselves as the Colleagues.”
“Mitchell Cranston.”
“That’s the man they named.”
For the first time in quite a while, Steffan lifted his cup and sipped at the tea, now doubtless quite cold.
“You’ve heard of Cranston, of course.”
“Of course. Anyone knowledgeable about the government in the fifties has heard of Mitchell Cranston. There’s no public record of his involvement with Project Blue Book—but I’m sure that if we delved deeply enough, we could tie him in. This is going to take a good deal of research after the fact. What we need now is the space—and the time, if you will—to accomplish that.”
“We can’t do much research in jail, needless to say,” said Marsha. “However, we’ve already done some significant current research.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Marsha is somewhat of a computer whiz. That’s how we were able to get a lot of the initial investigation done, as soon as she walked into the picture, back in the historic days at Mac MacKenzie’s Iowa homestead.”
“The aliens—or should I euphemistically say, the Others—thoughtfully provided me with a hard disk portable computer with a 2400 baud modem. I’m a bit of a hack, in computer terms, and I was able to break into phone company computers. I traced the phone number that Maximillian Schroeder gave Jake Camden. I isolated it as part of a government phone-line exchange funneling interstate calls through a single local exchange. It took a while, but I was able to do a full phone log on Schroeder and isolate those calls which were done on government lines. But matching up with a timeline of Jake’s involvement with Schroeder, I was able to determine a single government exchange. Got the address on it, too. It’s just off Massachusetts Avenue, near Twenty-Third Street. And it’s the Washington offices of guess who?”
“Mitchell Cranston?”
“Right in one.”
“Which doesn’t really prove anything. That kind of stuff really won’t hold up in court.”
“Yes. But it would seem to verify the Others’ claims. I must say, they’ve been a hundred percent accurate.”
“You trust them, then?”
“No. Not entirely. But we seem to be working toward the same interests here.”
“But what about Diane...”
“Diane, they say, will r
eturn when she is ready. I haven’t got the faintest where she is—my only choice here is to cooperate and to see what happens.”
“Yes. Yes, I understand. That’s what I myself would do, I must say.”
“We have to warn you... Our presence here and your help is going to cause some danger to you.”
“I’m aware of that, Everett. But you know that we’ve worked well together before. And it’s not as though I’ve got a family around to protect...” Steffan looked almost regretful. “What I don’t think you understand, though, Everett, is the full extent of my feeling of outrage in all of this. All of my life, I have watched the rich people, rich corporations, rich politicians, trounce upon the basic principles that make the United States a great nation. What we have here is clearly the most arrogant, incredible assault upon the concept of freedom that I’ve ever heard of in my life—far beyond the worst I’ve ever imagined! No, Everett... Danger! I take it as a personal affront that such a conspiracy should be operating! And on an international... no, intergalactic level! I insist on you letting me be of whatever help I possibly can!”
“Thanks, Craig. It’s really good to know that I can count on you.”
“That’s right. So.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “The first thing on the agenda, it would seem, would be to get someone we can trust to start assembling a case for you, should the climax of this particular adventure not spell total vindication for you.”
“You’ve got someone in mind?”
“Yes. He’s a friend of mine, with much the same outraged political viewpoint as mine.” Steffan smiled ruefully. “And without the need for an immediate retainer. And without our breed’s predilection for fiduciary priorities.”
“You mean, he’s not a Shylock,” said Marsha.
“That’s correct.”
“That’s okay,” said Scarborough. “We’re going to need the best. And it’s not like we don’t have money now—and won’t have money in the future. The Others provided us with sufficient working capital to see this whole thing through.”
“The lawyer’s name is Vince Scapelli. He’s a criminal lawyer here, and let me tell you, he’s quite sick and disgusted with drug cases. He’ll take you on in a snap.”
The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy Page 102
