The shadow war

by Glen Scott Allen

  Just beneath the block of text, in the same flowing, faded script, was a single line.

  R 6:12-HPB

  Seaton paused, looked at Benjamin. "R 6:12. Revelation six, verse twelve. And the HPB is, of course…"

  "Harlan Phlegon Bainbridge," finished Benjamin.

  "Of course," echoed Wolfe. Then he hurried on. "And exactly when was it your family obtained the diary from the Foundation?"

  "Some time later," said Seaton. "They felt we had the resources necessary to preserve a treasure like this. And fortunately it was one of those that survived the fire."

  "Fire?" asked Wolfe.

  "I'm sorry," Seaton said, smiling. "I forget not everyone is as familiar with the family history as most of the folks around here. In the sixties my father decided to donate a portion of our collection to the Library of Congress. But just before those books destined for the library were to be shipped off, there was a terrible fire on the grounds. One of the old gardeners' cottages and a storage shed were completely destroyed, parts of this house were badly damaged, and some of our books were lost. But fortunately not this one."

  He looked down at the diary with the undisguised pride of an ardent collector, and added, "It is, after all, one of the most magnificient hoaxes ever produced."

  Benjamin was about to say something when Wolfe gently touched his arm.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Morris," Wolfe said carefully. "Dr. Stoltz was a little… vague on that aspect of the story. Could you-"

  Seaton smiled, as though he'd heard this before.

  "Yes, Edward doesn't like to emphasize that part. Diminishes the glamour. Well, it's quite simple, really. Such a find was of course submitted to the foremost antiquarians of the day. And, while whoever the perpetrators were certainly knew their stuff, after close examination, inconsistencies and flaws were found. Eventually they established that the book couldn't possibly have been written more than a year or two before it was unearthed. It was probably all part of some elaborate joke someone was playing on the Institute, perhaps an attempt to embarrass them. The Institute's principles weren't as… mainstream back then as they are today. There were those who wished to strangle it in the crib, as it were."

  "Remarkable," said Wolfe, leaning closer to the glass. "It looks so… well, old."

  "As I said, a magnificient deception." Seaton's manner changed, becoming even more condescending. "But after all, think about it. What are the chances a book would survive all those decades, two hundred and fifty years, no matter how well protected, in the earth? Or that it wouldn't have been discovered long before?" He shook his head. "No, I'm afraid, as much as I'd like to be the possessor of something so rare, I must satisfy myself with owning the diary equivalent of the Piltdown Man." And he smiled at his own joke.

  Benjamin finally felt calm enough to speak.

  "I'm curious," he said. "The forger, what sorts of entries did he create in the diary? Would it be possible to, well," he looked Seaton straight in the eye, "to obtain a printed copy of its contents?"

  Seaton's composure didn't waver. "What an odd request," he said, smiling. "I suppose, from when it was studied, we might have something like that. I could look, send it over to Arthur should I find anything."

  Benjamin started to speak and Wolfe interrupted him again.

  "That would be fine. Most appreciated. Well," Wolfe said, nodding, "we don't want to keep you any longer. I know you have important people coming this afternoon."

  Benjamin was still looking very closely at the diary. Suddenly there was a knock at the French doors.

  "Come in," Seaton said. The doors slid open and the butler stood there.

  "Your first guests for the auction have arrived," he announced.

  "Tell them I'll be right there," Seaton said. The butler bowed slightly, turned on his heel, and left.

  Seaton turned back to Wolfe. "Well, I hope this information somehow helps your… inquiry, though I'm not certain I see how it can."

  Wolfe smiled broadly. "We really don't know, you see. This is all just an attempt to be thorough. It probably can add nothing to what we already know about Dr. Fletcher's death."

  "Yes, Arthur told me," said Seaton. "Terrible. I understand he was brilliant."

  "Apparently," said Wolfe. He extended his hand, and Seaton shook it. "So, thank you very much for your time and all your help, Mr. Seaton. We've intruded long enough. And I'm sure Arthur will be very grateful."

  "Anything we can do for the Foundation," Seaton said, shaking Benjamin's hand. "And very good to meet both of you."

  Again Benjamin seemed on the verge of speaking, but before he could Wolfe took him by the arm. "Time to vamoose," he said, smiling, "before we wind up buying a painting we can't afford."

  They both nodded to Seaton, and then followed the butler through the foyer and out the front door. They declined the offer of an umbrella from the butler and, after he'd said a curt "Good day" and shut the door, Wolfe and Benjamin made a dash to the car.

  Once past the gate, Wolfe carefully pulled over to the side of the road, stopped the car, and, with the rain pounding down on the roof of the car, turned sideways to face Benjamin.

  "Now… what?" he demanded.

  "It's a fake," Benjamin said calmly. "A forgery."

  "Yes, of course it is, we know that. Seaton told us it was a hoax."

  "You don't understand. I mean, it's a fake hoax."

  Wolfe was absolutely silent for a moment. When he finally gathered his breath, he asked, "What on earth does that mean?"

  "What it means is, it would only be a real hoax if there were no real diary, right? But there is a real diary."

  "How could you possibly know that? Seaton didn't let us examine it closely."

  Benjamin smiled, paused, enjoying the fact that for once he was about to surprise Wolfe.

  "Because whoever created that one had seen the real diary," he said. "And so have I."

  CHAPTER 19

  Again Wolfe stared at Benjamin for a moment. The only sound was the rain beating against the car's windows and roof.

  "What do you mean," he asked, speaking very slowly, "you've seen the real diary? Why wouldn't you have told me that much sooner?"

  "Because I didn't know I'd seen it!" Benjamin answered. He sat back, calmed himself. "At least, I'm fairly certain I have seen it."

  "My god, Benjamin, a book that old? How could you not be sure whether you've seen it before or not?"

  "Because the book I now believe is the original diary… well, it's not an exact match to the book Seaton showed us. Which is precisely why I think it was the real diary. Look, it's hard to explain. It would be much simpler just to show you. But I need to wait until we're back at the Foundation to be certain. They have a library?"

  "An awfully good one," said Wolfe, "for so remote a spot."

  "Good," Benjamin said firmly. "Let's get back to the Foundation, so I can be certain."

  Wolfe started the car and eased it back onto the road. The rain was letting up slightly, but it was thick enough to make driving on such a narrow and winding road dangerous, and Wolfe devoted his attention to navigating the twists and turns.

  After they'd been driving for a few minutes, Benjamin spoke again.

  "Oh, and something else. Did you notice that portrait over the mantel?"

  "You mean the rather stiff-looking gentleman?" asked Wolfe. "I just assumed he was a Colonial paterfamilias."

  "Me, too," said Benjamin. "At first I thought it was a portrait of Gouverneur Morris. Then I realized I'd seen that painting before. It's a portrait of Major General Horatio Lloyd Gates."

  "The Newburgh Gates?"

  "One and the same," answered Benjamin. "I'd bet my career that painting is based on a sketch done during the war, a sketch I am sure I've seen. It was used as an illustration in a pamphlet he had distributed at Congress, part of his publicity campaign to replace Washington as commander in chief of the Continental Army. But what would a portrait of Gates be doing in the Morris mansion?"

>   "Ah," sighed Wolfe. "There's no 'X marks the spot' to all this. Not yet, anyway. I said we've been following Fletcher's bread crumbs. Let's keep on the trail and see where it leads. Though these seem dark and tangled woods, indeed."

  Benjamin laughed.

  "You find that funny?" Wolfe asked, surprised.

  "No," said Benjamin. "It's just that the whole 'trail of bread crumbs' theme comes from Hansel and Gretel."

  "Yes," said Wolfe.

  "Well," said Benjamin, "I was just thinking about what nearly happened to them."

  ***

  When they returned to the Foundation, Wolfe suggested that he would talk with Arthur while Benjamin pursued his research in the library, and they should meet in the dining hall in an hour.

  "About Arthur," Benjamin asked, "you'll tell him about the fake diary?"

  Wolfe smiled. "Nothing quite so precipitous. No, I'm largely interested in the first question he'll ask me about our visit to the Morris Estate."

  "And what will that be?"

  "How should I know," Wolfe said impatiently, "until he asks it?"

  With that rather cryptic comment, Wolfe patted his shoulder and headed off to Terrill's office.

  Wolfe had told Benjamin that the Foundation library was back behind the laboratory building, so he walked through the manse's foyer and on out into the quad.

  The rain had stopped as suddenly as it had begun, but the downpour had left puddles in the grass and on the cobblestone walkway. The copper gables of the dining hall and manse glistened faintly in the dim, gray light.

  Benjamin felt a sudden sense of oppression, and realized that his deepest desire was to return to his room and get some sleep. He couldn't believe he'd been at the Foundation for only two days-not even that-and already his life before this seemed a distant memory.

  As he crossed the quad, he saw Gudrun sitting on one of the benches. She smiled as he walked up to her. She was dressed in a tailored beige corduroy jacket, crisp white blouse, and tight black slacks, the toes of shiny black dress boots visible beneath the cuff of the pants. Her blond hair was fastened at the back in a ponytail. Benjamin thought she looked every inch the wealthy country gentlewoman out to stroll the grounds of her weekend estate.

  "So," she said, rising, "you and Samuel visited the Morris digs?"

  "Yes," said Benjamin, surprised. "But how did-"

  "I told you, the campus is like a small town," Gudrun said. "So, what did you think?"

  "Impressive," he said, keeping it simple.

  Gudrun smiled at his understatement. "At the very least. There was a reception there some time ago for the Foundation fellows." She stopped, looked him in the eyes, smiling now as he'd seen her do at dinner the night before-but this time it seemed more genuine. "I imagine their book collection is like King Solomon's treasure for someone like you?"

  "Well, we certainly didn't see all of it, but what we did see-"

  "Benjamin," she interrupted him, "I know I came on rather strong last night. I just wanted you to know… I do like you, Benjamin. Under other circumstances… well, I just mean, with all this going on, this can't be the best impression of the Foundation for you."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I'm just saying, Benjamin, you might… what we do here, we believe in it, all of us. Do you understand that?"

  "Well, yes, I imagine you do." He hoped he didn't sound too critical.

  Gudrun reached into the breast pocket of her jacket, extracted a pack of cigarettes and lighter. She pulled out a cigarette, offered one to Benjamin-he declined-and she lit up. She took a long drag on the cigarette and then turned to him.

  "I mean it's easy to become cynical. When your whole life people have treated you as some sort of prodigy…" She took another drag on the cigarette. "Well, you must know that feeling of infallibility."

  "Infallibility?" he asked. He shook his head. "Hardly. I'm good at memorizing names and dates, that's about it. That doesn't come close to what Dr. Fletcher did. His work, it's-"

  "Benjamin, I lied to you," she said abruptly.

  "What?"

  Gudrun threw the cigarette to the ground and stamped it out.

  "I did make an appointment to speak to Jeremy," she said. "I don't know exactly why I lied, I just…" She shook her head. "Anyway, I'm sorry. I just didn't want to be associated with anything… potentially embarrassing. My career is very important to me. This fellowship at the Foundation, it could mean… anyway, I am sorry." She smiled. "Do you believe me?"

  "I… understand," Benjamin said.

  "Do you?" she asked, sensing his hesitation. "Do you have some time now? We really didn't get a chance to talk last night."

  Benjamin hesitated. "Well, I was just on my way to the library…"

  "Then later perhaps? This evening, after dinner? We could take up where we left off?" Again she smiled a bright and what seemed to Benjamin an utterly sincere smile. And again he felt flattered by her attention. He nodded.

  "All right then," she said. "I'll let you get off to your musty books." She leaned closer and kissed him briefly on the cheek. And she walked off slowly, as though deep in thought.

  CHAPTER 20

  An hour later Benjamin was retracing his way across the quad, two books under one arm. His trip to the library had been successful, and he couldn't wait to show Wolfe what he'd discovered-which was that he'd been absolutely correct: Seaton Morris's "hoax" was itself a hoax.

  As he passed the biology building he saw a light on in the window of Edith Gadenhower's laboratory. He thought Wolfe must have finished with Arthur sooner than he expected and come to Edith's lab to ask more about Jeremy's visit, and he figured he might as well join him there.

  When he entered the building it was almost preternaturally quiet. The only sound was his shoes squeaking on the linoleum hallway. He came to Edith's laboratory, saw that indeed a light was on inside, and entered.

  He expected to hear Wolfe and Edith speaking, but silence reigned here as well.

  "Mrs. Gadenhower?" he called out. There was no response. "Sam?" he tried again. Still nothing.

  He rounded the corner into the area where Edith kept her hives behind the Plexiglas shields. At first, he saw no one. One of the fluorescent lights over a workbench was on, which accounted for the light through the window. And then he did hear something.

  It was a low, muffled hum-like someone had left some electrical equipment on.

  He stepped forward to the large lab bench that divided the room. As he did so, his shoes crunched on something. He looked down and saw broken glass scattered across the floor.

  "Edith?" he called again.

  And then he saw them.

  Moving across the cabinets on the other side of the room, drifting up to the ceiling and around in irregular spirals, clumped together here and there along a workbench… bees.

  Hundreds of them.

  He stood frozen.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that one of the trapdoors in a Plexiglas shield was open. And now he could make out bees in twos and threes exiting through the small open door, moving in lazy tangents across the room, to a spot on the floor hidden from his sight by the lab bench.

  He realized this was the spot from where the hum was emanating.

  His first impulse was to turn and flee for the door, but he felt instinctively that any abrupt motion would attract the bees' attention.

  He rose on tiptoe, trying to peer over the bench, to where the bees were congregating.

  What he saw made him gasp-and then immediately catch his breath.

  It was Edith Gadenhower.

  She was lying on the floor, in her white lab coat. She was utterly still. And across her coat, in her hair, along the one bare arm that lay awkwardly out across the black-and-white tile… bees. Crawling, hovering, alighting and flying off again, dozens of them. She was surrounded by an aura of bees.

  Mellifera scutellata, he thought suddenly. Africanized bees.

  Killer bees.

  Reflex
ively, Benjamin took a step backward. His shoe landed on a shard of glass, cracking it.

  It was as if a wave passed across the surface of all those crawling, circling, floating spots of yellow and gold; almost as one, like faces in a startled crowd, they turned to him.

  Benjamin spun around and ran. But as he did so he tripped over one of the high stools, and went crashing to the floor.

  He nearly screamed-but then stopped at a horrifying vision of hordes of bees flying into his open mouth.

  And then several things happened at once. Even as he raised his arm to shield his eyes from the first descending bees, he heard a shrill alarm-and then a sort of strangled hiss. A yellowish vapor began spraying from the ceiling. As its first tendrils reached him, his eyes and throat went icy hot with pain, and he found himself on his side, coughing and retching simultaneously.

  The next few minutes were a blur. His eyes felt scalded, and a misty veil of tears obscured his vision… But he saw someone come into the lab, someone with a handkerchief over his mouth… Samuel Wolfe.

  Wolfe grabbed Benjamin by his shoulders and began dragging him across the floor, toward the laboratory doors.

  CHAPTER 21

  "Here," Wolfe said, "have another." He was holding a glass of water toward Benjamin. Benjamin thanked him, accepted it, drained the glass.

  "Sure you don't want something stronger?" Wolfe asked, grinning.

  Benjamin shook his head.

  "Well then, allow me." And Wolfe rose and went into the kitchen at the back of the dining hall.

  Though his eyes and throat still burned, Benjamin was finally beginning to believe he might survive. Thanks to Samuel Wolfe.

  Coming to Edith's lab after speaking with Terrill, Wolfe had pushed open the door, only to discover Benjamin sprawled on the floor with a cloud of angry bees descending upon him. Immediately he remembered about the emergency button, rushed back to the door and pressed it, and then returned to extract Benjamin from the fearsome cloud of yellow gas and dying bees.