by Terry James
He started the car and the scope lit up with a circular line-schematic, white on a dark blue background. Obviously tracking equipment. They were tracking him! But how? He would have to be carrying a homing device of some sort with him. The most likely place for something like that would have been the attaché case; but it detonated at McLean. The videotapes — it could be in the videotapes! If the homing sensor was in the tapes, he was still carrying it, and other tracking devices like this one were tracking him now, or soon would be. He must find the transponder and get rid of it.
He unwrapped the coat from around the materials and looked over the videotapes. Nothing but plastic cases and the videotape which the cases protected. Though he was neither expert nor totally up-to-date on the latest technological advances in mobile surveillance, he did have some knowledge of such things, and he knew of no tracking device so powerful yet small enough that it could not be seen by the naked eye. But that did not mean that new super-micro breakthroughs had not been achieved, his knowledge thus made obsolete. What if the videotape, itself — its celluloid-like composition — possessed innate qualities that provided those radar-like instruments with a homing signal? The device must be found and destroyed!
For now, though, the best thing was to keep moving until he could find where they planted the signal device. In the lining of his clothing? In his shoes? He must check at first opportunity.
Where to go in order to have time to check for the transponder — to review the materials — to rest--to figure out how to get to Karen, if she were still alive.
He could take this car belonging to his enemies, and... No... They must not know that he learned they had the tracking capability. They might then bring into play new methods, new devices. He must let them continue to track him, if they could, until he could find the homing device; then he could destroy it, or deactivate it. Somehow use it to his own advantage if, of course, he could elude them long enough. He had to leave the car as he found it, the keys in the ignition, the homing scope turned on. He had to get away. Now! The ring was tightening; he sensed its deadly noose, felt it gathering about him. He must get away from Rockville and the eschatologist's burning house.
Time — it no longer meant anything, he supposed, but he wished for his missing watch. Time was something familiar — silent — an invisible companion that linked his rationality to a world which two nights before had made sense, but in that one confounding second, vaporized when the agent's reflection disappeared from the rearview mirror. Time was still a real commodity, even though one he could not see, represented by the incremental sweep of the second hand on the watch Karen had given him. The watch was at Naxos — rather, in Naxos. Time could now be recognized, be fleetingly harnessed in his mind, only by the silent counting of the seconds, and the buildings shadows creeping traverse of the vast concrete surfaces across from the apartment, from whose window he watched the pitiful, meandering souls dazedly shuffle along the streets of Boston. Time remained a constant; time could not have changed as had everything else during the past hellish hours. The electric clock in the kitchen which he could see through the narrow, doorless opening read 11:56. But the long shadows indicated it was more like 3:00 in the afternoon.
Electrical service was disrupted for more than a day when the disaster happened, and Boston was one of the luckier of the big cities. Most were still without electricity, according to reports he monitored between naps since the quick trip to Boston and the occupation of the apartment, one of many dwellings left vacant by the disappearance.
Had the high-speed helicopter trip from the small Maryland airport — the result of a hastily-made friendship with a pilot who was trying to find missing members of his family in Boston — thrown his enemies off his trail? Did the flight break the chain binding him electronically to those who wanted him dead? He had checked clothing, shoes, everything he could think of where the transmitter might be hidden. Had it fallen from wherever it had been placed? Jostled loose, perhaps, during the latest leg of his flight from his enemies? And if not, if the device was still in place, had the distance put between himself and them broken that invisible umbilical cord which drew him into the center of their devilish surveillance screens?
The naps had helped relieve the terrible drag of fatigue, but not eliminated it. He longed for hours of sleep. Sleep free from the need to keep watch out of the eighth story window — free of his inner urgings to search for a video recorder in order to play the tapes, to locate a compatible computer, in order to go over the data on the diskettes. The compelling necessity to remain watchful. The dread, that if he left this apartment the transmitter would again put him within range of the surveillance screens, kept him from looking for the equipment he needed to plan. Soon, he must break out of this cocoon of hiding; soon, he had to open himself up to them.
His eyes burned from the strain of watching the street below and the streets surrounding the buildings across the way. Nothing of consequence, only people continuing to shuffle about in shock, searching for a corner of sanity to grasp. An occasional car moving one way or another along the streets, swerving to avoid the several wreckages strewn about. His eyes next focused on slender, colorful objects which darted in a hazy, liquid world; his mind followed, its thoughts aborted by the realization he was looking into the large aquarium atop a wooden cabinet that was layered below with shelves housing items for maintaining the fish tank.
Exotic fish darted or treaded in mid-water, their gills opening, their O-shaped mouths puckering then dilating. Some of the larger ones, apparently less easily frightened, seeming to observe him as intently as he did them. Bubbles ascended in a steady stream from the tank's re-oxygenation system, but the water looked murky, most likely a result of the hours without electrical power to run the cleansing machinery. Should the fish be fed? The tank cleaned?
Jacob smiled, mildly surprised that such simple thoughts gave him, for a brief moment, remembrance of the formerly normal world — a small degree of relief from the bizarre present. He looked through the supplies, seeing a half-dozen boxes of different kinds of fish foods. With his index finger, he tapped what he considered a generous helping from each of the boxes and stirred the floating bits so that most sank.
"I don't know if this is how they did it for you, my friends, but eat, drink, and be merry... for tomorrow your feeder may perish," Jacob said, bending to look into the tank to watch the fish take the food, then dart swiftly from the others before returning near the surface to gobble more.
His own stomach rumbled, persuasively arguing that he had not been faithful to it since leaving Naxos, except for the meals on the plane while crossing the Atlantic, and the crackers and light snacks of cookies and chips he had munched since. He was reluctant to attack the more substantial foods in the refrigerator, not knowing how long the electricity had been off. In the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator door, the food aromas entering his nostrils, setting in motion deep cellular hunger that weakened him and burned the pit of his stomach. He decided to risk it, and ate his fill. Within minutes, the warm, satisfying waves of replenishment flooded his body with energy he had not felt in a week.
At some point, he would have to get more food. And, someone was bound to come to check this apartment sooner or later, whether relatives of its former occupants, building management or some other authority. He sipped the soft drink from the aluminum can and returned his thoughts to matters he had managed to put aside while he ate. Troubling things, but things which, with a full belly and at least some sleep, seemed less overwhelming than before.
First matter to attend to — find the VCR and the computer, then study the materials, while at the same time avoid being located by the assassins. The VCR wouldn't be hard to scrounge, but the computer could prove difficult to find. The particular type he needed had been made obsolete by the UNIVUS equipment. Most people had turned in their old home computers as token payment for the new.
The Federal government had supposedly sold, but actually had given, th
e antiquated computers to Third World countries. This was, of course, after making substantial modifications, to make the computers compatible with telecommunication systems throughout Europe, the United States and Japan. Odds were against his finding one of the old computers without putting himself in jeopardy, because he would probably have to range far from the apartment. Regardless, it had to be done.
Throughout his time spent in the apartment, he had listened and watched with an eye and an ear tuned to the 40-inch TV screen set into one wall, while keeping the other eye and ear alert to things happening on the streets below. Since the disappearance, all networks had periodically given way to the Emergency Broadcast System, which continued to drone only official government speculations about what had happened. A government, he reminded himself, which had proven to be his enemy. And, he was convinced that government was the puppet, or at least the client, of those in the man-made caverns of Naxos. He was equally convinced that their intentions were to persuade all people of the world that they, those elite few in Naxos, should direct the course of world affairs from here forward.
The officially sanctioned theory had evolved and remained unchanged--that a sudden cosmic illness, one like which must have devastated the dinosaurs, had occurred. It was a non-stop assault aimed at quelling panic, and all the major networks lent their top anchor people, as well as, lesser journalists to the effort. Now that the networks had been given back the airwaves, they continued the concerted attempt to put the public at ease.
Gone now from those networks was the formerly innate skepticism, the antagonism to the questionable intents of governments and politicians. On all issues involving the great disappearance--and that was the only thing being pondered by them--the line remained the same: it must have been a cyclical cosmic disturbance like the one that made the dinosaurs extinct. They added to the supposition: Now scientists were quite certain that such a phenomenon had erased from paleontological record all traces of the missing-link anthropoid/homosapien beings of evolutional theory. Emergence evolution was thus made unnecessary to the explanation of man's beginnings.
But he knew that the words were lies--that the government, like everyone else, had no idea what really happened. He knew from the things he learned while listening to and watching the Vice President that night while in the crawlspace at Stone Oaks. It was all a sham, and they would mold and herd the people through their deception into some sort of computerized, one-world society unless somebody made people aware of "The Plan."
And that, if for no other reason, was why they wanted him dead or alive. If he were going to die anyway for the data contained in the tapes and diskettes--or worse--live a life of such confining, agonizing existence as to make it not worthwhile, good sense as much as enraged ego dictated that he pursue that knowledge and claim it for his own.
The inner voice, that same instinct or whatever it was, told him that the volatile materials had locked within them directions for survival— escape for himself, maybe for humanity, and for Karen, if she were still alive. She had to be among the living; that hope, he felt to his marrow, was the source that kept the inner beacon lit, his energy fires kindled.
He knew the truth of their conniving. Once he had viewed the tapes and the information on the diskettes, he would know the extent of their deceit and their ambition. He was doomed for certain if he merely sat and did nothing. They would find him and kill him, or else the system would gradually absorb him along with every other pitiful creature under its dominion and snuff out all personal liberty. One man alone could do little to assuage them or to stop implementation of their plans for their victims. But to sit and do nothing was slow, excruciating self-execution. Worse. As one man who possessed information that could damage the monster, to sit and watch those terrible jaws tighten without using that weapon as best he could would be genocide through omission. But one man—one man, alone.
Suddenly, he heard a clicking, rattling sound at the apartment's front door. The brass knob turned quickly, one way, then the other! Had they found him again? How many would there be this time? What route would he take to escape? Eight stories...no fire escape from the apartment's balcony. Nowhere to go to get away!
He must face them, surprise them! Bash their insidious brains out before they killed him. The stricken thoughts caromed in his mind while he hurried as noiselessly as he could to the door, tightly gripping a pewter statue of an American Revolutionary War soldier he took from a lamp stand. He stood beside the door with his back to the wall, which met a plaster and wood door-facing that protruded 12 inches into the room, providing him a recess that could hide him for a few valuable seconds when they came through the door.
If they were his would-be killers, why were they trying to open the door with a key? They had surely scoped the situation, knowing that he could not escape this time, except by climbing on the facade of the building or jumping from the iron railing to another balcony. Why did they not burst in like they did at Marchek's home? But, then, they did not need to burst in. They would take their time; there was no place for him to run.
The door would open any second. It would move open, away from him, giving him a free swing at the first one in. The first through the doorway would pay admission with his skull!
Drawing back the pewter soldier, he glanced first at the area of the opening where the man's head should appear, then looked downward where the feet would take their first steps into the apartment. He caught a glimpse of the toe of a black, patent-leather shoe and he blinked, his panicked reasoning ability thrown out of sync by the shoe's appearance. It was a woman's shoe! And it pushed the door open to its fullest extension before disappearing momentarily from view. A woman! Could they have sent a woman to do their work?
Papers crackled in the hallway. The sound of paper sacks or bags being gathered from the hallway floor. She was picking up something made of paper. Not the premeditative actions of someone intent on rousting out her prey. Keep the weapon poised, he thought. Do not be caught by surprise.
Jacob pressed his back flat against the niche, holding the soldier high, ready to strike.
A hand came into view and pushed against the door, which had swung fully open, then rebounded to a nearly shut position. Oval, perfectly manicured nails of crimson, tipped the ends of the slender fingers. Smooth skin — a young woman's hand.
She struggled through the opening, trying to handle a large paper sack full of grocery items, and at the same time her purse and keys. When she closed the door, he stepped from the wall.
Her piercing shriek startled him, even though he thought he was prepared for it. She was unable to speak, her complexion going chalk-white, her face frozen in a look of terror. The sack and purse had exploded against the floor, sending its contents askew. She started to fall, her knees buckling. Jacob lunged and caught her, then carried her to the long sofa, put her on it, and knelt beside her.
"I'm sorry... I won't hurt you." He held her hand and patted it, wondering why people always patted the hand when someone fainted, or the cheek, which he then patted gently, trying to revive her. "I'm not going to hurt you."
Her eyes fluttered sleepily, then opened to their normal width before gaping in panic. She looked at Jacob, who put his hand over her mouth and pinned her gently against the sofa cushions, feeling her stiffen beneath his grip.
"I'm not going to hurt you. Believe me... I... will... not... hurt... you. I'm going to let you go, now. Please don't scream... Please."
Relaxing his grip and taking his hand slowly from her mouth, he backed away a couple of feet, still kneeling on the floor on one knee, his hands, palms up in the air for her to see. "See... I won't hurt you."
The young woman lay still for a moment, then sat up quickly and withdrew into the corner of the sofa. "Who are you?"
"My name is Jacob Zen. I didn't think anybody still lived in this apartment. I've been here for three days. Please believe me... I won't harm you... Okay?"
She silently considered his words, but did not
relax her stiff posture against the arm of the sofa.
"Look." He took his wallet from his back pocket. "See. My name is Jacob Zen. I'm a liaison officer with the United States State Department. Take it... See for yourself."
He offered the wallet and she cautiously accepted it and examined the card, her pretty eyes glancing fearfully at the photograph then at his face. "What are you doing here? What do you want?" Her tone betrayed the fact she was near tears, and he moved slowly farther away from her, hoping to put her more at ease so he could begin winning her trust. She tossed the wallet timidly in his direction and he leaned to retrieve it from the carpet.
"Like I told you. My name's Jacob Zen. May I have your name?"
"What are you doing here?"
"As I said, I'm liaison officer with the State Department. You know what's happened... All these people vanishing... These crazy things that've been going on. I thought whoever lived here disappeared like the rest." His explanation met icy silence.
"Look. This is classified," he lied, "...but I was sent here to do some work that requires staying out of sight. I felt I could do that by picking a place like this, rather than checking into a hotel under a phony name. When I checked this apartment out, I found evidence that whoever lived here hadn't been around for quite some time. The fish tank hadn't been cleaned after the power was off for so long — there was spoiled food on the counter top ~ things like that. I thought it would be a good place to do my work."
The woman eyed him warily, but with a bit less suspicion, he thought.
"Look, I really am sorry I frightened you. I thought the place was okay to use — that no one would return. I'll just get my stuff together and get out."
"I haven't been able to get back..." the woman said, ignoring his offer to leave, her voice quietly soft. "I was in Maine when... it happened... at my mother's home. She just..." Her tears came. "She was gone." The girl looked at him, her eyes liquid with her grief. "Mother was there, having coffee, eating, laughing... then she vanished. She just wasn't there anymore."
