Never Look Back

by Ridley Pearson

  “I know.” Borikowski nodded, then asked, “How long will the drug last?”

  She looked over at Corbett. “Fourteen to sixteen hours.”

  Borikowski was gentle with her. “You have done well. Thank you,” he said as he slipped the special ammunition clip into the butt of Lydia’s semi-automatic, replacing bullets with tiny drug darts. He checked the safety and handed the gun to her. He removed his holster and then put on Alex Corbett’s heavy winter jacket. It was snug in the shoulders.

  “You’re all set?”

  “I think so… all set.” She explained, “The potted pine to the right of the door.”

  “To the right as you’re leaving,” he confirmed.

  “Yes. As you’re leaving.”

  “Very well. Listen. I will recommend they delay any reassignment. It’s the best I can do.”

  She nodded reluctantly, eager to see him leave.

  Borikowski patted his pockets as he walked down the well-lit hallway toward the lobby. He inhaled, holding his breath for a long count and then exhaled slowly. He pushed through the doors and into the office lobby, aluminum briefcase in hand.

  The man reading the morning paper was not who he had expected. Instead, a younger man with short blond hair and narrow pointed ears stood near the desk, chewing gum and reading a newspaper. He wore a dark tan suit and a red, white, and blue-striped tie. Glancing up, he set the paper down and stood to greet Borikowski.

  Borikowski was appalled. This is it! Another mistake! No one knows a damn thing! Ignorant fools!

  The young man smiled and nodded.

  Dr. Alex Corbett returned a nod and walked immediately over to the nearby men’s room, pushing the door open as he entered.

  The Plan. Their Plan. The FBI.

  Only moments later, the young agent entered. “Dr. Corbett?”

  They shook hands.

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Huff. I’m your escort for your field trip this morning. Sorry about this, but you know the procedure.”

  “Yes.” Borikowski allowed the man to pat him down, searching for weapons. And he knew how a nervous Corbett would react. He was Corbett now. “This is all a little bit like James Bond to me. You’ll excuse me if I seem excited. I don’t mean to sound rude, but could I see some identification? They told me to be very cautious.”

  “Of course.” Smiling, the agent opened the small wallet, flashing an official-looking ID that placed him with a security company out of Columbus. Borikowski knew the employer was the United States Government.

  Imitating Corbett, Borikowski shifted his eyes constantly, as nervous as a penniless man at the race track.

  “Totally understandable, sir. Personally, I wish we didn’t have to go through this. But that’s all there is to it. After you.”

  Borikowski insisted, “No, please.”

  Huff led the way.

  Who are you? Borikowski wanted to ask. We have no reports of any young agents connected with the Vaughnsville Project. The Franklin papers indicated the surveillance was Level Five, mostly electronic, and that the few agents assigned to Vaughnsville were in their sixties. How many more like you are there?

  “Did you say something?” Huff asked as he led the way out into the cold.

  “No,” Borikowski replied, anxious for the man to turn around. The potted pine was only a few feet away, and there, at the far end of the parking lot, headed away from them, was the sexy walk of Liz Johnson.

  Borikowski glanced back at the motel doors, making certain no one was behind him. He then looked ahead, to insure Huff was still walking away from him, which he was. At the potted pine, Borikowski bent quickly, took the gun from its hiding place, and stuffed it between his pants and shirt, continuing on without so much as a break in stride.

  Huff tried several times to start a conversation as he drove Dr. Alex Corbett out of town, but the biophysicist professed to be studying for the upcoming meeting. He finally admitted, “You know, Mr. Huff, this is exciting for me.”

  Huff smiled. The ride continued for twenty minutes with Borikowski’s head hung deeply in thought. He had memorized some key scientific phrases. He reviewed these now, in case he should need them.

  Looking out occasionally at the unrelieved flatness, he admired the wintered fields and thought of the farmers in his homeland.

  They drove through the tiny town of Gomer, and finally slowed to a stop, brakes singing, next to a small strut bridge that spanned the Ottawa River.

  A white, stretch-cab pickup truck, its sides and tires covered with streaked mud, was parked in front of them. Huff threw his arm over the back seat and looked Borikowski in the eye. “End of the line. You want to get in the back door.”

  “Thank you.”

  A gust of wind nearly knocked Borikowski down. Pain stabbed his head and then disappeared. The aluminum briefcase swung away from him like a kite caught by the wind. He grabbed his tam just as Dr. Alex Corbett would, elbow tucked, head cocked, hair a shambles.

  The truck’s rear door popped open. Borikowski grabbed the handle and pulled.

  As he climbed inside, he caught a glimpse of the silver-haired man who resembled Albert Einstein. He yanked the door shut and locked it. The howling outside was replaced by a delicate exchange between woodwinds and violas.

  “Mr. Halleran, the music please…” Dr. Eric Stuhlberg spoke with a thick German accent.

  Stunned by the presence of yet another unexpected agent—Halleran—Borikowski suddenly believed he was being led into a trap.

  They’re going to drive me right into a jail!

  Stuhlberg’s eyes were the color of faded denim; his voice sounded like sandpaper being rubbed against concrete. “I’m Eric Stuhlberg. Thank you for coming, Dr. Corbett. I appreciate your valuable time.”

  “Call me Alex, please. It’s certainly a pleasure to meet a man I have read so much about, lectured so much about… I am honored to be invited… excited!” Borikowski finger-combed his coarse, wigged hair, pushing a clump to the other side of his head.

  “Alex, I’m afraid I must ask you to wear this blindfold,” Stuhlberg explained regretfully, handing him what looked like ski goggles painted black. “Mr. Halleran will insist on it.”

  Halleran’s smile filled the rearview mirror.

  Stuhlberg continued, “And he makes the rules.”

  “I understand, Dr. Stuhlberg.” Borikowski stretched the elastic band around his head and pulled the blindfold in place.

  Halleran turned up the music; the sad plea of an oboe filled the vehicle. Violins and cellos conversed. The truck bumped, but not in time with the music. Borikowski rocked back against the seat, his head strangely sinister in the black blindfold.

  The executioner’s hood.

  Flutes echoed, timpani rumbled and quieted. Stuhlberg knew exactly when the pause came and how long it would last. His salty voice took a solo. “Please excuse my silence. I dislike that blindfold, and I would prefer to wait until we can see each other….” His words faded into the waterfalls of cymbals and trumpet melodies chased by French horns.

  Borikowski waited patiently in silence. The quiet before the storm. He could sense that Halleran occasionally looked at him in the mirror.

  For Borikowski, habits, schedules, surveillance techniques, number of personnel, performance characteristics of environmental monitoring equipment all came into play now. A critically timed operation, Crown’s success now relied heavily on the accuracy of the gathered intelligence. Seeing both Huff and Halleran had done little to sustain Borikowski’s confidence in the quality of that information. He thought, What else don’t I know?

  He counted one turn after the bridge: a left; then three rights. Halleran, however, had done two clever loops and had fooled a veteran fooler.

  They traveled down a series of country roads—the last two miles dirt. Large signs repeatedly warned trespassers in bold letters to STAY OUT—LIABLE TO CRIMINAL PROSECUTION. STATE PROPERTY.

  It was Federal property.

>   The trip took less than twenty minutes.

  The overpowering smell of raw cow manure wafted in through the truck’s vents. Borikowski heard a large door shut electronically.

  Stuhlberg said, “You may remove the blindfold now, Dr.… Alex.”

  “Debussy, isn’t it, Dr. Stuhlberg? But I can’t seem to place the…”

  “La Mer: ‘Jeux de vagues’… Play—”

  “—of the waves. Yes, of course. Lovely.”

  Surprised, Stuhlberg replied, “Ah, you speak French!”

  Halleran’s eyes filled the rearview mirror; and Borikowski cursed his overactive ego.

  Borikowski knew that, in fact, Corbett did not speak any other languages. And surely Halleran did too, for his eyes reappeared in the mirror, intent and anxious. He made no effort to leave the truck, now that they were parked.

  Borikowski explained, “No. I’m just familiar with some of Debussy, that’s all.”

  Halleran seemed satisfied with the reply, though still mildly curious. He asked, “If you don’t mind… What was the color of your maternal grandmother’s house, Dr. Corbett?” and removed and unfolded a piece of paper from his breast pocket.

  Thump… thump… thump… Borikowski’s heartbeat intensified.

  “Frank!” Stuhlberg objected.

  Borikowski interrupted, “No problem here, Dr. Stuhlberg. I understand such precautions.” He looked at Halleran in the mirror, and then he recalled. “My mom was born in that house, you know: a big old blue three-story, with black shutters, two chimneys, and a tall elm out back that died of Dutch Elm disease when I was six… or was it seven?”

  Now Halleran was satisfied. He climbed out and opened the door for the two.

  Feigning surprise, Borikowski said, “A dairy barn! You’ve been working in agriculture!”

  Stuhlberg’s lips pursed and then curled. “No, my friend. You know the government. Always tricks.”

  “Like working on Sundays?”

  “We’ve been working six days a week for months. Tuesdays are our day off here—though not this Tuesday since we have the opportunity to work with you.” He smiled. “I am sorry the support teams aren’t here today. Sundays we strip it down to only a few diehards. There will be four of us today; five if possible. You’ll meet the rest tomorrow.”

  “Sorry I stole your Tuesday.”

  “It’s not the first, I assure you. Nor the last. We’re having some problems. That’s why we’ve called on you. We’re happy to have you here.”

  They were standing inside the dairy barn. The truck, parked next to them, blocked the door at this end. Another truck blocked the far door. More than twenty cows stood in tight stalls as electronic milkers emptied their udders. Plastic umbilicals carried the milk away. Three older men were performing light chores: two checking lines; the third shoveling manure into a wheelbarrow. These were the men Borikowski had expected.

  Stuhlberg’s voice bounced aimlessly through the barn and a bird flew from one rafter to another. The old scientist followed its flight. The bright overhead lights sparkled in his eyes. “I can’t tell you how I’ve looked forward to this.” He walked around the truck. “Your research is what impressed me—your articles. This way,” he explained, jerking his head toward an area filled with sacks of grain. Borikowski followed. “Specifically your antigen research. Remember, Alex: salt. Our first problem is salt.” Stuhlberg turned, stopping Borikowski. His eyes were young, his skin loose on his bones. Like the cows’ udders. “I have some projects here, Alex. I have some projects that I am very proud of. A little help is all I ask. Creative help. In order to win some traits we had to lose others. With your help, I hope we will reestablish some of that which we have lost.”

  Borikowski avoided the shop talk. “The blindfold, the dairy barn. It’s all so new to me… so strange.”

  “Our research money is half government, half corporate. In its present stage, some of our bugs are very toxic. This fact is central to our problem. We are toxic under the wrong conditions; we are made ineffective by others. Final touches are all we need. Final touches. Please, step in here.”

  He led Borikowski through a door and into a small storage room, its shelves crowded, its floor hosting sacks of grain, which filled the enclosure with the pungent smell of molasses.

  “Close the door, if you please.”

  Borikowski pulled on the rusty handle, shutting the two men in the tiny room.

  Stuhlberg motioned for him to step closer. “We are in an elevator. Stand in the center, please.”

  Borikowski watched Stuhlberg’s right index finger closely, waiting to see which switch he used. The computer rotated the operable switch daily. Only the doctors knew the correct switch. Any of the others would trip an alarm.

  Stuhlberg pushed a middle button on a very small panel that was hidden well within a shelf. The room dropped with a silent suck to the stomach. “Level One is fourteen meters below the surface. Levels Two and Three are not in use at this time.”

  Borikowski continued his rehearsed Corbett role with perfection. “But why?”

  Stuhlberg’s hoisted brows answered the question.

  Corbett would be shocked, Borikowski thought. “It’s that toxic?! Is this military? Doctor, I was assured I would not be involved with any—”

  Stuhlberg interrupted, smiling as he spoke. “Nor would I!”

  The elevator stopped.

  Stuhlberg surprised Borikowski when he tripped another switch—one that the Durzhauna Sigurnost had not gleaned from its inside sources. A wall rolled aside, revealing glass and aluminum: a House of Mirrors. Small outer room; tan security box mounted to the wall. Decontamination booth the size of three phone booths straight ahead. The lab, only ten feet away, visible through thick glass.

  Two people waved: a woman in a blue surgical uniform and thin paper hat and face mask, and a man in green scrubs with the same protective wear. Their faces were hidden, but their eyes smiled.

  Dr. Alex Corbett offered a layman’s salute, also smiling.

  Stenciled on the glass doors next to the security box, were the words: LEVEL ONE.

  This was one of the most important moments of the assignment. Borikowski could no longer rely on his acting or his cosmetics. Now he had to rely on a small piece of plastic—an imitation credit card that Soviet Military Intelligence technicians had provided him—a piece of plastic carrying a computer-coded magnetic strip containing a recording of his voice speaking the three words: “Dr. Alex Corbett.” At the motel he had placed five such cards into Corbett’s wallet, aware that the computer also daily rotated the security cards. To use Corbett’s cards—cards with the wrong voice recorded on them—would trip the computer’s alarms. So, he watched Stuhlberg carefully.

  The scientist withdrew a Gold American Express card from his billfold and inserted it into the tan box, face up. A tiny red LCD light changed to green. Stuhlberg spoke at it carefully. “Dr. Eric Stuhlberg.”

  An odd electronic voice—nothing but a series of taped words strung together—replied antiseptically, “Sun-day… Twenty… Three… November… Zero… Nine… Twenty… Nine… Hours… Welcome… De-oc-tor Stool-bug.” Stuhlberg pushed one of three buttons atop the machine, all unmarked. The box responded, “Con-diz-un-al.” Stuhlberg told it, “Host.” To which the machine responded: “Guest?” Stuhlberg stepped out of the way, allowing Borikowski to use the machine.

  As Borikowski—Corbett—slid his card into the small slit in the security box, heat ran up his spine. He waited. It seemed like forever….

  The red light finally changed to green.

  “Sunday… Twenty… Three… November… Zero… Nine… Thirty… Hours… Welcome… De-oc-tor… Keh… Orbit… This is your first visit… Do you wish instructions?… Push the third button…” But Stuhlberg pushed the second button. From the box came, “Thank you. You may continue.”

  Seconds later the doors hissed open.

  He was inside.

  The men’s locker room, identified by a stick
figure, was to the left. To the right, the woman stick figure wore a skirt.

  Borikowski asked, “If not defense, or agriculture… then what… medical?”

  “Pardon me, please,” Stuhlberg answered, a coy grin playing across his dentures, the dull blue eyes glinting. “I had been asked to wait until we were actually inside the laboratory. Now we are. The project I most need your help on is in the energy field, Alex.”

  They entered a white-tile locker room, sterile and so well-lighted that it nearly blinded. A door closed behind them.

  Stuhlberg told him, “For experimental purposes, and due to toxicity, we attempted to safeguard our test bacteria using pressure. The process was relatively easy—we engineered the cell walls to collapse given a certain change in pressure. But, of course, this triggered the release of endotoxins, and we ended up with more problems than we began with. What we were after was a monoclonal antibody. Rather than recombinant, we have been working in the more cost-effective cell fusion. Hit and miss. We maintained the safeguard of pressure, but were hoping for a specific monoclonal to develop through transduction. What we hit upon two months ago was a set of bugs that cause cellulose hydrolysis on biomass at a high rate, with a high yield. And what we hope for is another bug to then chain n-alkanes.”

  “Petroleum?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Incredible.”

  Stuhlberg smiled proudly. “Our problem,” he continued, “is that our monoclonal antibody recognizes sodium chloride as its antigen. For both national security and laboratory health hazards, during early development, such an antigen was useful. If our pressure system for containment failed, we could resort to salt water. But this is clearly an obstacle now. We hope, with your expertise, to attempt recombinant procedures and alter the bugs one last time. We need to change the antigen reaction without losing the specific function of the bug. We can’t have salt water eliminating our bugs. For our purposes, that is now unacceptable.” Stuhlberg did not tell him the rest. He decided to wait. No use frightening the man.

  “Fascinating.”

  “I was hoping that would be your reaction. I am extremely proud of this work. It represents a dream I have held for quite some time. This discovery will contribute to our country’s independence—energy independence. What could be more important, Alex?”