“I’ll explain everything when we meet, Ms. Moore. Shall we say tomorrow at three in the afternoon in room 129 of Berringer Hall?”
When Christina walked into room 129, Perrone and two other agents were already there. Her eyebrows rose when she saw three people and immediately noticed that the size of the men and their dress and demeanor didn’t look like that of NSA fellowship admin personnel. Perrone smiled broadly as he stepped forward extending his hand, “Hello Ms. Moore. I’m Calvin Perrone. And these are my two associates,” said Perrone, without introducing them. “Why don’t we make ourselves comfortable and sit around the conference table.” As they all sat down, Christina placed the NSA letter on the table in front of her.
“So, Mr. Perrone. Please tell me what this letter is all about.”
Perrone blushed as he folded his hands on the table and leaned toward Christina. “Ms. Moore, there’s no problem with your fellowship.”
“So then—what’s the issue? Why did I get this letter?”
Perrone shifted uneasily in his chair. “Let me be frank with you, Ms. Moore. The letter was a discreet device to get you here for a meeting without alarming you. We need to speak to you about a matter of significant national security.”
“Are you with the NSA or not?”
“No.”
“Then the letter was a lie.” Christina was red faced as she began to get up from the table.
“I am Calvin Perrone, but I’m with the CIA not the NSA.” Calvin pulled out his ID and showed it to Christina. He motioned to the two other men at the table who pulled out their IDs.
Christina settled back into her chair. “So what’s going on?”
Perrone tried to sound matter of fact. “Ms. Moore—we’re here to talk about Dr. Robert James Austin. We trust you know the name.”
“Who doesn’t know that name? What about him?”
“As best we can guess, Austin’s intellect is the result of some kind of genetic mutation. We don’t know that for sure, but it’s all we can surmise. The bottom-line is that his intelligence is a perishable resource, the likes of which may never be seen again.”
“And your point?”
“Like any of us—he can die at any moment,” replied Perrone somberly.
A small smile parted Christina’s lips. “Was that an epiphany you had recently?”
Perrone frowned. “My point is that when he dies, this extraordinary resource—a resource that has drastically changed the world for the better—will be extinguished. The resource is irreplaceable. And I’ll tell you— there are a bunch of nut cases out there who want to kill him— so his life expectancy is anyone’s guess.”
“All of this is fascinating, Mr. Perrone, but how does it concern me?”
Perrone inched his chair closer to hers. “Austin is a very peculiar guy. He’s single. He doesn’t date in any normal sense. He’s so obsessed with his work that he swears off any possibility of a real relationship with a woman. In short—he’s not likely to have any children. We don’t know if his intelligence might be capable of being passed down or not. But the possibility exists. We need this guy to have kids.”
“Who’s we?”
Perrone leaned back in his chair and spread his arms out expansively. “The world, Ms. Moore. The world needs him to have kids.”
“So why don’t you get some sperm samples from him and impregnate some female volunteers. I’m sure there wouldn’t be a shortage of them.”
Perrone shook his head dramatically as if he were beyond the point of exasperation. “That would make sense if Austin would cooperate. But he won’t. He has a pathological aversion to the government.” He leaned in close to Christina. “He’s very suspicious.”
Christina raised her eyebrows. “Really? I wonder why?”
Perrone stood up and began to walk slowly around the room as he continued to speak. “So—the only way it’s going to happen is the ‘old fashioned way.’ The Agency’s view is that the quality of Austin’s genetic material will be diluted by any female—because obviously, there’s no one in his league. However, the dilution will be minimized to the extent that the female is as intellectually potent as possible.”
“And your point?” said Christina, her words clipped.
Perrone was now standing next to her chair, looking down at her. “We’ve gone to great pains to identify potential candidates and you’re our #1 choice,” he said smiling broadly, as if he were telling Christina she had just won a lottery.
Christina’s face flushed scarlet and her voice rose as she looked up at him. “You’re kidding right? This is all some crazy practical joke?” Shaking her head vigorously, she said, “You’re good, Perrone. Real good. But I actually have some lab experiments I have to get done.” She began to stand up. Towering over her, he gently motioned her down and then sat next to her.
His voice was stern. “This project of ours can change the course of human history for the better.”
Her eyes wide, she said, “Project? You guys have a name for this?”
Perrone leaned in so his face was only inches from hers. “Yes. It’s classified, but I’ll divulge it to you. It’s Project WS.”
Christina laughed. “Does that stand for “we’re sickos?””
Perrone frowned. “It stands for “World Save.””
Christina rested her face against her palm and closed her eyes. “Does Austin know you’re out here trying to run a stud service?”
Perrone shook his head emphatically. “He has no idea—and can’t know. He would flip out.”
“Well, at least he’s sane. Goodbye Mr. Perrone.” Christina stood up, crumpled the NSA letter, threw it on the table and began to leave.
“You’re a selfish person, Ms. Moore. A very selfish person,” said Perrone as he trailed after her.
Just a few steps from the door, Christina whirled around, her face red with anger. “You have a hell of a nerve, Perrone. You get me in here under false pretenses and outline a hair-brained scheme that only an outfit as crazy as yours could conjure up—and then when I don’t agree, all of a sudden I’m a selfish person. Do you think I went to school all these years, earned honors, a Ph.D and fellowship, just so I could be bred like a bitch at a kennel? What do you think I am?”
Perrone inhaled quickly. “That’s not it—calm down—that’s not it at all.”
“Like hell it’s not,” Christina said, reaching for the door knob.
Perrone pleaded. “Please—wait a minute. Look- I’ve screwed this up. I shouldn’t have handled it this way. But please—just sit down—give me ten more minutes—just ten minutes—that’s all I ask. Please.”
Christina shook her head but then sat back down at the conference table as she tried to regain her composure. Perrone turned off the lights in the room, lowered a projection screen from the ceiling and began to run a dramatic compilation video that the Agency had put together highlighting Bobby’s accomplishments and the impact that he already had on the lives of hundreds of millions of people throughout the world. The video showed the extent of human suffering that existed before his discoveries and the difference he had made. The screen was filled with the faces of the grateful from all walks of life, all ages and many nations, who expressed, often with tears of gratitude in their eyes, the respect, admiration and love that they felt for him. The contribution which he had already made, at not even 40 years of age, was overwhelming in its magnitude, and the spirit of hope and renewal that he had engendered was heartwarming and uplifting. Renowned scientists expounded on Austin’s brilliance and selfless devotion, and echoed the same thought –“Robert Austin is much more than a genius—we don’t have a word for what he is—but thank God for it.”
At the video’s end, Christina Moore, Calvin Perrone and the other two CIA agents sat in silence in the dark, a heavy residue of human emotion in the a
ir. Even one of the hardened agents flicked his eyes. Nothing was said. Perrone turned the lights on. Christina stood up, straightened the impeccable black suit that she wore only for interviews, and headed for the door. Perrone stared down at the table and looked defeated. When Christina reached the door, she turned around. Her eyes swollen and red, she said, “OK. Here are the ground rules. I’ll meet him. That’s all—nothing else. I’ll consent to meet him once.”
Perrone bounded over to her. “That’s great. That’s all we ask. No strings. Just check him out. You’ll see—he’s even a pretty good looking guy.”
“Where’s the meeting going to take place?” she asked.
“Leave that to us.”
Perrone’s walk down memory lane was interrupted by the director’s heavy hand on his shoulder. “I see you have a glass of champagne. That’s a good start. Are you enjoying yourself, Agent Perrone?”
“Very much, sir. Thanks for inviting me.”
“You deserve it. You proved yourself on Project WS. It was a delicate assignment and you executed it with precision.”
“May I ask you a question about it?”
“I may not answer it—but ask.”
“Where did the directive come from for the project? Was it the White House?”
The red flush that came over the director’s cheeks signaled his annoyance at the question. “The directive came from me.”
Just as Perrone was about to say something to mollify Varneys, a tall elegantly dressed older man who looked like Washington had been good to him for a long time, stepped forward and said, “Director —Merry Christmas and congratulations.”
“Congratulations?” asked Varneys.
“You haven’t heard? It’s going to be announced tomorrow. Your boy just won two more Nobels. For the malaria cure and the other parasite disease work he did. And he got an Abel Award for math also.”
Varneys did his best to conceal his embarrassment that the Chairman of the Senate Committee on Homeland Security had information he didn’t have. “An Abel Award,” repeated Varneys matter of factly.
The senator swirled the ice cubes in his gin and tonic, and moved closer to Varneys as if he were about to impart a personal confidence. “The story goes that Alfred Nobel’s wife was having an affair with a mathematician—so Al’s revenge was to exclude math from the awards. That’s why there’s no Nobel Prize for math. The Abel was established to fill the gap.”
“Yes, of course. I knew that,” said Varneys, flicking his hand.
“The best part,” said the Senator, laughing, “is the statement from the Abel Committee.”
How the hell has he seen the statement already? wondered Varneys. In a town where information is the most valuable currency, the look on the senator’s face signaled his sense of superiority. He continued, “Orin—you have to read it when it’s released. It’s hilarious. They say they’re giving him the award because they know he deserves it for his new math language, even though no one understands it, but they hope they will one day.”
“That’s rich,” said Varneys, clasping the senator’s arm.
Looking at Varney’s wide-spaced eyes and the innumerable small teeth that were exposed by his forced smile, Perrone wondered if he was the only one who thought Varneys resembled a piranha.
As the Senator walked away, he turned toward Varneys and raised his glass as if to make a toast. “Don’t think any of us have forgotten who we have to thank.”
58
Patience and planning were virtues that Colum McAlister long ago learned to value. Sitting in front of the video monitors in his Lands End office, his safe open, he flipped through his alphabetical file of video discs and prepared to make copies of the small screen debuts of:
Neil Foster, the Undersecretary of the Department of Health and Human Services
Randall Lindsay, the Deputy Commissioner of the Food and Drug Administration
Graham Waters, the Chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee
Michael Petersen, the Chairman of the House Committee on Ways and Means
He smiled. Politicians have so little will power. They want it all. Whatever their proclivities, penchants and weaknesses, McAlister had catered to them over the years —sometimes at Lands End—but more often at entrapments that McAlister had orchestrated in Washington D.C., New York, Aspen, Los Angeles—wherever the opportunity best presented itself. The incriminating antics of his hapless stars –all venerable and vulnerable public servants –would be preserved on video and land-up in McAlister’s alphabetical file. He had been building what he called his “insurance portfolio” for a long time. Often his coverage spanned years, and began early in the careers of upwardly mobile subjects that he had identified as potentially useful. When things went as they should, the videos would remain McAlister’s secret—secure and hidden away. Most of the time, he could rely on the more subtle tools of influence peddling, which he plied with great acumen. But over the years, his videos had proven invaluable and had given Bushings the edge it needed in many regulatory and legislative contexts. Now, at this point in time, McAlister felt that he had to pull out the stops.
The deputy commissioner of the FDA had a preference for young dominant women attired in fetish gear who would gag and bind him, subject him to humiliating violations, and then lead him around on a leash like a disobedient puppy. The chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee enjoyed infantilism. McAlister smiled as he thought how shocked the American public would be to see the “lion of the senate” attired in nothing more than a diaper and a baby bonnet, sucking on a pacifier, his eyes wide with anticipation. The Ways and Means Chairman, a conservative Republican with a picture-postcard American family, was partial to boyish looking males, the younger and skinnier the better, particularly in pairs. And then, there was McAlister’s personal viewing favorite, the Undersecretary of the HHS Department and his beautiful wife, twenty years his junior, who enjoyed cuckold scenes in which she would have sex with young well endowed men, while her husband watched and pleasured himself as he was taunted by them for his inadequacies. As McAlister reviewed the videos he had selected for duplication, he was pleased. “Each one a career killer,” he muttered.
59
It was well after eleven at night when Bobby stepped out of the elevator, walked down the narrow non-descript hallway, opened the door to apartment 4W and flicked the lights on. This was the first time in five days that he had come home to his apartment instead of staying at Prides Crossing. He pulled the living room curtains closed, poured himself a drink and kicked off his shoes, all within what seemed like a single movement. Collapsing on the sofa, he was exhausted. What’s that foul odor? he wondered. Tracking it to the kitchen, he realized he hadn’t emptied the garbage in almost two weeks. He grabbed the overflowing trash bag, stepped into the building’s hallway and walked over to the disposal chute, only to find that it was taped shut, with a sign posted, “Out of Order. Put Trash in Basement Bin.”
The force was so astounding when it blew out the windows of the entire fourth floor, that a fireball was propelled across the street, scorching the face of a building fifty feet away. Within a few minutes, the police cordoned off a three block area, and the roads became clogged with fire engines and emergency vehicles. The media reported that a gas leak emanating from the kitchen of Apartment 4W at 5 Adam’s Way, leased to a Susan Corwin, had caused the explosion and that anyone in the apartment would have been killed instantly.
“What the hell happened?” Varneys yelled at Perrone.
“From our surveillance tapes, we know that a cable TV repair crew entered the building last week. While we can’t be sure, we think they might have opened the manifold on the roof and somehow delivered explosives into the air- conditioning ducts of Austin’s apartment, probably by way of a radio controlled trolley that was operated remotely using video guidance. They must have
been watching the apartment waiting to see Austin enter, at which point they detonated the bomb. It was a highly sophisticated operation.”
Varneys’ head wagged. “But how would they know what Austin looks like? There aren’t any photos of him out there.”
Perrone’s words were cadenced as precisely as he could manage under Varneys’ gaze. “They didn’t necessarily know. But they saw the lights go on in 4W. Somehow they knew it was really Austin’s apartment and not Corwin’s.”
Varney’s voice was a cold monotone. “And your team picked up nothing.”
“We picked up the cable truck arriving.”
Varneys began to pace. After a few back and forths, he stopped in front of Perrone. “But the guys who entered the building weren’t with the cable company were they?” he asked rhetorically. And your agents didn’t check their IDs when they entered the building?”
“That wasn’t the protocol, sir. This was a covert operation, not a lock-down. The apartment and the fourth floor hallway were under twenty-four hour surveillance. The intrusion escaped detection only because of the use of the ducts.”
Varneys smacked the corner of his desk with his open hand and the loud slap caused Perrone to wince. Varney’s voice was a harsh rasp with a rapid staccato delivery. “The surveillance was a total failure, a complete waste of time. If Austin wasn’t in the basement dumping his crap because of a busted compactor, he’d be dead. We don’t get paid to be lucky.”
Perrone shifted uneasily. “No, sir, we don’t.”
Varneys glared at Perrone. “Now—who’s responsible for the blast?”
“From what we can tell so far—it’s RASI,” Perrone replied. “They have a contingent of ex-military operatives and they also have the funding to contract privately.”
Miracle Man Page 25
