Government agents stormed the hotel room, carted away its contents in two large trucks, and placed them under top secret seal.
With the United States in the throes of World War II, the government was desperate for any new technology that Tesla may have invented to help turn the tide against the Axis, no matter how far-fetched. The FBI ordered Special Agent in Charge P.E. Foxworth to review Tesla's papers. Working feverishly around the clock, the agent pored through thousands of pages of documents.
And discovered something.
Something so extraordinary that Foxworth decided to reveal it only to the man in the wheelchair who occupied the White House. One problem: Franklin D. Roosevelt was in Casablanca meeting with Winston Churchill and Charles de Gaulle. Despite the legion dangers looming in the wartime skies, Foxworth was undeterred, considering his discovery too important to wait until the president’s return or to reveal it to J. Edgar Hoover. He boarded a military transport aircraft for Morocco.
It exploded over the Atlantic Ocean.
There were no survivors.
These facts are true.
Despite nearly 70 years of effort, the United States government never learned what the FBI agent found.
Until a clue was recently discovered.
Nicolas Kublicki
Los Angeles, California
PART ONE - CHARGE
1. STAR
December 30, 1942
Beverly Theatre
Beverly Hills, California
7:03 PM
Montgomery Grant did not know that he was about to die.
As a rule, movie stars do not escape from their own movie premieres. Grant did.
As soon as the lights dimmed and the silver screen glowed to life, Grant rose from his private balcony seat. Careful to make sure that no one noticed him, he walked down the utility staircase to the ground floor exit. The movie stars, studio executives, film critics, and adoring fans in the audience were watching Grant’s latest film, Infamous, but it was Montgomery Grant that they had come to see. America could not get enough of the talented actor with the dimpled chin, sly smile, athletic build, New England meets Old England accent, and impeccable sartorial grace.
Grant glanced at his watch. Infamous was one hour and twenty minutes long. Just enough time to drive to his meeting and return to the theatre before the movie credits started to roll.
Although exhausted from his urgent Boeing Stratoliner flights to and from New York, adrenaline coursed through his veins. Grant cracked the exit door open. Two police officers were walking down the alley behind the theatre. He waited for them to turn the corner, then pulled down his black fedora and stepped across the alley to the Bekins Storage parking lot, trailing the scent of Acqua di Parma cologne.
On such crisp and clear winter nights, Grant preferred to drive his white Packard roadster. Tonight, he had left it at home. He could not risk anyone noticing him until he was back inside the crenellated walls and under the white onion dome of the theatre inspired by the Arabian Nights. He opened the driver's door of his glossy black 1939 Cadillac Series 90 limousine, slid into the dark red leather seat behind the wheel, replaced his fedora with a chauffeur's cap, started the massive V-16 engine with a push of the firestarter.
It’s just like a movie role, he repeated to himself, as he had done many times before.
Grant accelerated North on Cañon Drive. Resisting the urge to speed as fast as the powerful car would go, he obeyed the speed limit to avoid attracting attention. He rolled down his window and lit a Chesterfield cigarette as he drove through the leafy residential neighborhood to the ‘Pink Palace’ Beverly Hills Hotel, then turned right on Sunset Boulevard, heading East toward Hollywood. He checked the clock in the varnished wood dashboard, took a deep drag from his cigarette. He was on schedule, but knew from experience that he would not relax until after returning to the theatre. He exhaled a plume of blue smoke into the cold night air, clicked on the radio. After a short announcement extolling the virtues of Lux soap, the enchanting melody of Glenn Miller's Sunrise Serenade wafted through the dashboard speaker. It soothed his anxiety, yet he remained on edge.
Grant had worked long and hard to rise from misery to international stardom and wealth - not an easy feat during the Great Depression. He could easily have avoided military duty, yet he could not forget that he owed every bit of his fame and fortune to his beloved adopted country. Like the hundreds of thousands of young American GIs fighting and dying in faraway lands to defeat the scourge of fascism, he would do his duty.
Despite his resolve, tonight’s mission felt different from the others. More dangerous. Grant felt the enemy lurking in the urban shadows, watching, tracking, waiting. Perhaps it was the nature of the documents he carried that made tonight’s mission feel so perilous. When the scientist had entrusted them to him in New York less than 72 hours ago, he had told Grant that they would change the course of history.
Grant stubbed out his cigarette, reached inside his Carroll & Company tuxedo jacket. His fingers touched the envelope. Still there. He took deep breaths of the chill air as he drove past the Cock N' Bull English pub, crossed Doheny Drive, and arrived at the brightly illuminated Sunset Strip. Fashionably dressed couples and a few uniformed soldiers on leave animated the liveliest destination in town. The winding avenue was thick with traffic. Grant slowed the ponderous car to a crawl, slid past The Trocadéro restaurant, the Clover Club mob gambling joint, and the offices of the Hollywood Reporter.
The Cadillac crept by Ciro's supper club. Giant klieg lights were stationed in front of the hotspot in anticipation of the Infamous movie premiere party that would grace its sumptuous interior in less than two hours.
Suddenly, a black Ford Deluxe coupe parked in front of Ciro’s made a daring U-turn, arcing across the crowded boulevard amid honks of protest, ending up directly behind Grant’s Cadillac. He was about to dismiss the maneuver as the antic of an overworked valet parking attendant when he realized that there was not one but two men inside the car, now positioned inches behind his gleaming chrome bumper. Grant’s neck muscles tightened.
Maybe his imagination was playing tricks on him. He had been exceedingly careful in leaving the theatre. Grant was certain that no one had seen him leave. If the enemy had followed him from the theatre, they would not have had to make a U-turn across Sunset to catch up with him.
He clicked off the radio and glanced at himself in the rear view mirror. From behind the wheel of the limousine, with his cap instead of his fedora, Grant looked like a chauffeur. More handsome, perhaps, but unrecognizable from the other Hollywood chauffeurs at the helm of their wards’ steel and chrome yachts. How could they have recognized him from across the boulevard?
Grant figured it out when he saw a knockout blonde cross the road and stare at the glossy Cadillac with undisguised admiration. He cursed under his breath. The enemy knew that he had arrived at the Beverly Theatre in his Cadillac. It was the car they had recognized, not him. They had not followed him from the theatre, they had been lying in wait for him.
He wanted to gun the massive engine, but the stoplight at the intersection of Crescent Heights turned red. As he slowed, then stopped, Grant saw the Ford abruptly change lanes, pull up beside him on his left. He turned his face away from the men inside, anxious for the light to change, praying that he was wrong. As soon as the light turned green, he pushed hard on the accelerator. The Cadillac’s sixteen cylinders roared to life and shot him through the intersection. The weaker Ford strained to follow. Grant’s glee at his superior horsepower disappeared as soon as he noticed a bottleneck up ahead. He would soon be trapped. He had to get out. Now.
Grant jerked the wheel to the right, pulled into the Schwab’s Pharmacy parking lot, screeched to a halt. Leaving the Cadillac in the middle of the parking lot, he leaped out and raced into the pharmacy that doubled as an actors’ hangout, resisting the urge to look behind him. A squeal of tires and the sound of rapid footsteps told him all he needed to know.
They were following him.
Grant dashed past Ronald Reagan and other fellow actors seated at the counter, stepped into the men’s room, locked the door. He felt his heart pumping in his chest. Before thinking of his own escape, he had to destroy the documents. Whatever the cost, Grant could not allow the documents to fall into the enemy’s hands. He did not have much time. He removed the envelope from his jacket pocket, tore it open, unfolded the five pages inside, and began to set each of them on fire with his solid gold Zippo lighter. A loud knock sounded on the door.
“We got to speak with you, Mr. Grant,” a hard voice announced, without a trace of an accent. “It's urgent.”
Grant blew on the sheets to fan the flames. The first one was almost completely burned. It sizzled as he dropped it into the toilet bowl. "Who are you?” He asked.
“The man in New York sent us.”
“Who?” He torched the second sheet.
“Please, Mr. Grant. Don't crack wise. Just let us speak to you. He just wants you to deliver another message is all.”
Grant placed the second incinerated sheet into the bowl, lit the third. If the scientist had wanted Grant to deliver another message, he would have contacted him in the prearranged manner. He would not have sent two unidentified thugs to follow him.
Grant dropped the carbonized piece of paper in the toilet, lit the last two sheets. The black smoke accumulating in the confines of the small bathroom made him cough. He looked at the small window above. It was latched.
“I see. Just give me a second. I’m on the can, for crying out loud.”
“We don't have time, Mr. Grant.”
Grant let the remains of the last two sheets fall into the toilet bowl, stood on the rim, unlatched the window. He pushed it.
It did not budge.
He shoved it a second time, harder.
It swung outward. The narrow opening would have presented a daunting challenge to most persons, but Grant had begun his career as a circus acrobat. In a fluid series of movements learned through years of training, he flushed the toilet, pushed himself up, contorted his lithe body through the window. Hoping that the flush would mask the sound of his escape, Grant reached up and pushed the window back into place before jumping to the pavement below. He landed on his feet. His first thought was to run along Sunset Boulevard, but that would present an easy target for the men following him. Instead, Grant sprinted through the buzzing traffic across Crescent Heights Boulevard.
The lazy residential area that greeted him on the other side was a godsend. Dark shadows of dense vegetation embraced him as he ran through a grove of trees, through the lush oasis of the Garden of Allah Hotel, and through the tidy green backyards of small homes. It was a perfect cover for his escape.
Too perfect to last.
Several homes farther, Grant ran out of backyards and into a chain link fence. He leaned against it and gripped it with his manicured hands. Panting, he turned to look behind him, listened.
No one.
His heart raced. He took deep breaths, forced himself to calm down. He had nearly caught his breath when branches cracked behind him.
The enemy had followed him through the gardens.
Grant crouched low behind a short nearby hedge, his pulse accelerating. He wiped the sweat from his face.
The men were thugs, he reflected, but they were well-trained thugs. They would soon find him. He could not remain where he was. Sunset Boulevard was only a dozen yards away, but it might have been 100 miles away, blocked as it was by a high wall. Grant turned to the fence, peered into the darkness beyond. From the dim glow of the streetlights, he spotted a sign erected near a tractor. It read 'Los Angeles Public Library - Sunset Branch - Opening February 1943'.
He smiled, his hope renewed.
There were myriad places to hide in a construction site. Grant started to climb the fence. Despite his well-practiced acrobatics, it rattled loudly as he ascended. He landed on his feet on the other side and darted into a large building under construction, not daring to look back.
The unfinished library was a collection of unplastered walls, rickety wood floors, and roof beams without a ceiling. It was pitch dark inside. Grant groped his way forward, touching the walls, stopping every few feet to listen for his pursuers. At first he heard only the sound of rushing traffic on Sunset Boulevard. Then of footsteps echoing through the empty building. Nearly paralyzed with fear, Grant forced himself to push deeper into the darkness. He hesitated, wondering whether he should flick on his lighter to illuminate his path, decided against it. The flame would give away his position. He would lose his only advantage.
He continued onward, walking in short, halting steps on the tips of his toes. The thin sheets of wood flooring flexed and creaked. He grimaced in anticipation of each next step. Several steps farther, there was no creak. Instead, Grant stepped into thin air and fell six feet before landing hard on a cement floor. His right ankle buckled under the force of the impact. He suppressed a yelp, but the sound of his fall echoed through the half-finished building.
Grant sat on the cold floor, wincing at the sharp pain, clutching his throbbing ankle. It was already swelling. He pricked up his ears. The footsteps had stopped. Grant was about to exhale a sigh of relief when an engine coughed to life far away. A lightbulb flickered on overhead. The thugs had found the electric generator. His hope evaporated. Even if he managed to extirpate himself from the basement, his twisted ankle would prevent him from escaping to safety. It was already swollen to the size of a grapefruit. He had destroyed the documents, but it was not enough. He patted down his tuxedo jacket, felt his Parker fountain pen and the outline of the Infamous movie premiere program. He removed them from his inside pocket.
The footsteps grew louder.
He was running out of time.
Grant paused to think, then scribbled on the program, stuck it between two wood beams in the basement’s low ceiling.
The footsteps stopped. Directly above him.
He looked up. Two faces glared down at him. The larger of the two men bent over the opening.
“We just wanted to speak with you is all, Mr. Grant. You didn't have to up and run away,” he announced. It was the same voice that he had heard outside the bathroom door. Low, filled with malice.
“Speak, then,” Grant replied, sitting on the floor, massaging his aching ankle.
“We just want you to give us what the man in New York gave you.”
“He gave me nothing,” Grant replied.
“Mr. Grant, please stop cracking wise. We don't have much time.” He removed a black Colt .38 Special revolver from a shoulder holster.
“Give me the papers,” the larger man said, holding out a meaty hand.
“I don't have any papers,” Grant continued, adamant.
“Come on, Mr. Gra-"
“Listen, you Nazi vermin. I don't have them,” Grant shouted, still unable to stand. "I had them. I had them and burned them and flushed them down the toilet. If you're going to shoot me, do it, because that's the only answer you’re going to get. I don't have them.”
The larger man turned to his partner slowly, then peered down at Grant. He sighed. "Then you don't have any time left.”
Three gunshots roared through the half-completed library, felling Grant. He slumped to the cement floor, bleeding, his breath ragged. Darkness closed in.
The larger man dangled over the side of the opening to the basement floor, patted down Grant’s clothes, sifted through his pockets. He removed his wallet, gold Zippo, and cigarette case, pocketed them. Finding no documents, he pulled himself up with his partner’s help. Both men disappeared down the hall without a further glance at the bleeding movie star.
For Montgomery Grant, there would be no more movie premieres. No more Cadillac limousines or Packard convertibles. No more Sunrise Serenades. As his life ebbed away at the apex of his career, Grant peered up at the basement ceiling and hoped that the right people would find his note.
2. PROGRAM
Sunset and Crescent Heights Boulevards
Hollywood, California
12:33 PM
Patrick Carlton sat in the rear of the tour van, watching the vestiges of old Hollywood through tinted windows as it pulled into a parking lot and stopped. Dressed in worn jeans, black cowboy boots, and a dark blue baseball cap with ‘Navy’ stenciled in yellow letters, he waited for his fellow passengers to file out before joining them in the scorching summer heat. Squinting against the brilliant sunshine, he pulled down the bill of his cap, leaned against a hot concrete wall, listened to the tour guide.
Her enthusiasm made it appear as though it was her first tour. This was the spot, she explained, where silent film star Alla Nazimova had turned her Spanish Colonial Revival mansion into the Garden of Allah Hotel in 1925. Sadly, developers had razed the elegant structure in 1959 to erect a bank, leaving behind only the Joni Mitchell lyrics ‘they paved paradise and put up a parking lot’.
A woman rushed up to the group in a panic, interrupting the guide.
“Have you seen him?” She darted her head left and right, eyes wide with fear.
Carlton recognized her as a fellow member of the tour. "Seen whom, ma'am?” He asked, pushing himself off the wall.
“Spencer. I can't find him. I've looked everywhere.”
Carlton saw her teeter on the edge of sorrow and terror. She was trembling. He remembered the little boy with her. "Spencer is your son?” He asked, leaning close, looking straight into her eyes.
She gave a frightened nod. “He must have run off while I was talking. I checked the van, the parking lot, all over. I can't find him anywhere. He's only four. I should never have-"
“We’ll find him,” replied Carlton in his most reassuring voice. “He can't be far away.”
While the other members of the tour group scoured the parking lot and retail shops for the boy, Carlton looked around, then ran down Sunset Boulevard. Fifty yards away, he arrived at a construction site blocked off by a chain link fence. A dust-covered sign proudly announced ‘Your Tax Dollars at Work: Los Angeles Municipal Public Library - Sunset Branch Reconstruction Project.’ He walked through the entrance gate into the noisy project area. Trucks, tractors, and construction workers were busy digging up, tearing down, and rebuilding different portions of the old Spanish Mission style library. Despite work crews watering down the project, the frenzied activity still managed to send clouds of dust billowing into the hot, dry air. Carlton stopped, scanned the site.
Patrick Carlton 01 - The Diamond Conspiracy Page 54
