by Paul Kenyon
She reached in her handbag for the derringer. Key had arranged the drop; a little old Spanish woman wearing a black shawl had handed it to her on the ferry, wrapped in a linen handkerchief. It was a friendly little gun with a pearl handle and two short barrels, one over the other. She palmed it and stepped into the cave.
The cave was one of the shallow ones, no more than a thirty-foot dish scooped out of the limestone by the elements. The young Arab was backed up against the far wall. She walked toward him, the derringer concealed in her hand. He smiled when he saw that his pursuer was a pretty girl. He raised his camera and took a picture of her.
And she suddenly ran into a brick wall.
She sat down, hard, on the stone floor of the cave, her legs askew. The derringer was no longer in her hand; she must have dropped it. She must have lost consciousness for several seconds, too, because the Arab was bending over her, and she had no memory of him walking across those thirty feet toward her.
"How did you manage that trick?" she said, and realized from the look on his face that he spoke no English.
There was a thick taste in her mouth, and a roaring in her head. A black cloud was swirling just at the edge of her vision, receding as she recovered. She felt strangely edgy and depressed.
He was pointing the derringer at her. Carefully he unslung his gadget bag and set it and the camera down on the ground. He motioned for her to take off her dress.
How nice! He was going to rape her. Charming! He intended to kill her, she was sure of that, but he wasn't about to waste a live one.
She smiled nervously at him, an I'll-do-anything-if-only-you-won't-hurt-me smile. Still sitting splay-legged, she pulled the dress off over her head and folded it carefully on the ground beside her. Rape victims pay attention to these little details.
His eyes widened when she took the dress off, and his breathing quickened. A hand strayed to his crotch to reassure himself that the great opportunity would not be lost. Fiona wriggled out of her panties, looking embarrassed, and lay back, looking resigned. He grinned. He couldn't believe how easy it was. He took a step toward her, unzipping.
She kicked upward with dancer's feet, as hard as she could. The toes of her espadrilles met in his crotch, making a jellied ruin of his testicles. He screamed, an awful sound. Her legs continued their pivoting movement, and he went up and over. She helped him along, one hand supporting his chest, the other grasping the wrist of the hand that held the derringer. The derringer went off, sending up a shower of limestone, inches from her head. She kept her grip as he flew over her head; the derringer had no trigger guard or safety, and she wasn't taking any chances.
There was the snap of a breaking wrist, as she prevented his arm from following his body, and then a convulsive movement that made the derringer's other barrel fire.
She picked herself up. The Arab was dead. The .22 bullet had entered under his jaw and exploded out the top of his head. There were specks of blood and brain tissues on the limestone floor.
She put her dress back on. There wasn't a wrinkle in it. Then she searched the body.
He had one of those excuses for a passport that Arab nations sometimes give to displaced Palestinians. There were a lot of stamps in it. He'd crossed a lot of borders recently. He'd been in Belgium, France, Spain, Morocco.
There was also a bit of bravado of the kind that Arab guerrillas sometimes carry around with them: a machine gun bullet that had been dipped in blood. At least she assumed that the rust-colored flecks still clinging to it here and there were blood. Part of the initiation ceremony. The PDF did it, and so did the As Saiqa movement, and she supposed that if PAFF existed, they might have adopted the custom, too.
She examined the camera next. She didn't know a damned thing about cameras, but she knew enough to tell that no one would ever take pictures with this one. The case was a hollow shell that had been filled with unfamiliar electronic equipment. The lens was real, but there was a new, complicated shutter device connected to a computer-like microcircuit. She snapped the case shut and shouldered the gadget bag. The Baroness would be interested in taking a look at it.
She dragged the body to the rear of the cave and piled limestone rubble over it. It was unlikely that it would ever be discovered. Gibraltar's caves had never been counted.
"You poor, unlucky bastard," she said as she finished burying him. "Well, at least you own a piece of the Rock."
* * *
Wharton's identification said he was an investigator for the National Transportation Safety Board. Investigation of the crash was under Italian jurisdiction, but because the plane had been American-built, international agreement said that the U.S. had a right to involve itself.
"But, Signore," the Italian airline official said, "your colleagues have already turned in a report on the case."
"We're reopening it," Wharton said.
"But why?" The official spread his hands. "It's listed as accidental."
"So was the crash in Barcelona," Wharton said. "We're reopening that one, too."
The official frowned. "The investigation was most thorough. There was no evidence of a bomb. No explosion of any kind. No sabotage. Nobody on board with a gun. The pilot had a heart attack. The crash was simply due to human error."
"The pilot had an attack, all right. But it wasn't a heart attack."
"Well, perhaps some other kind of attack, then." "And the co-pilot and the rest of the crew had attacks, too. That's why nobody grabbed the controls. Some coincidence, eh?" There was a threatening edge to Wharton's voice.
The official was sweating. "What are you suggesting, Signore?"
Wharton got up and walked over to the man's desk.
He sat on the edge of it. It was a calculated act of territorial aggression, designed to put the man off guard.
"We know you got a blackmail threat from PAFF," Wharton said.
"That's true. There's no secret about that. But, as there was no way that PAFF — if it exists — could have caused the crash…"
"Then why did you pay them a million dollars?"
Wharton loomed over the smaller man. Nobody could have accused him of making a threatening gesture. But his size and his closeness were physically intimidating in themselves.
Consternation showed in the official's face. "But we paid no blackmail…"
"Come off it, buddy. We know you did."
Wharton knew nothing of the kind. But it was worth a try.
The official was very nervous. This big American with the tough face was behaving like no NTSB investigator he'd ever met.
"Signore," he said. "You must understand that if we did deliver some kind of payment to some anonymous crank — and I say if — and the public were to find out, and our competitors…"
"You know," Wharton said, "hindering an official investigation can be a very serious matter."
"But how have we hindered? We have cooperated fully with both the NTSB and the Italian government. We even turned over the crank note, and they themselves decided there was no connection."
Wharton leaned over and spoke practically in the man's face.
"We decided different."
"We?" The airline official looked bewildered.
"Our interest is in tracking down PAFF. That's all. NTSB — and the Italian government — doesn't ever have to find out that you paid out a million dollars."
Comprehension dawned in the man's face. "You are from the CIA!"
Wharton nodded solemnly.
The official became brisk. "I must see your identification."
Wharton had a card that said he was from the CIA. It was as good a job of forgery as the one that said he was from the NTSB. The official studied it meticulously and handed it back.
"You see," Wharton said confidentially, "we're depending on you to keep our confidence."
"Capisco," the official said. "I understand." A moment later he was telling Wharton everything he knew.
* * *
Inga's hair had never been this untidy. But i
t went with the horn-rimmed glasses and the dowdy coat and the shapeless sweater and skirt and the sensible walking shoes. All the same, Werner seemed to find her attractive.
"Did you get anywhere with Herr Direktor?" he said.
"I took notes till my pencil wore out," she said, "but I'm afraid I didn't find out anything new."
"Come have a cup of coffee with me," Werner said.
She followed him to the Institute's cafeteria. Der Breuer Institut fur Psychologie was a hushed, severe place with long corridors and endless rows of cream-colored cubicles. It was perhaps the most advanced center in the world for psychological and neurological research.
Werner sat her down at one of the little tables and brought her a cup of coffee. He was a thin, dark young man with rounded shoulders and a pinched, boyish face. He'd been showing her around the place while she waited for her interview with the Direktor.
"So," he said, peering at her through thick glasses, "you're here in Munich doing research for your thesis on psychomotor epilepsy?"
"Yes, but there's so much competition on the subject that it's hard to… to develop an original approach." Inga made an awkward, fluttery gesture. She gulped air. She seemed very helpless.
"You're familiar with the work at Massachusetts General Hospital?" Werner said. "They surgically destroy a small portion of the brain — the amygdala. It seems to cut down the violent behavior connected with certain types of epileptic seizures."
"Oh, yes. They were very nice to me at Mass General."
Werner frowned. "And have you heard about the work they're doing in Chicago with a drug called Dilantin? It doesn't seem to stop the electrical discharges in the clusters of brain cells that cause epileptic attacks. But it keeps the discharges from spreading to nearby neurons."
Inga scrabbled in her handbag for her note pad. "I'll make a note to find out about that when I get back to the United States."
"And," Werner said helpfully, "of course you're following up Cooper's work in New York and the work at the University of Madrid?"
"Madrid?"
"Yes, with electronic pacemakers for the brain. Electrodes are implanted. A miniature computer detects the irregular electrical activity in the brain that comes just before an epileptic attack, and counteracts it with little programmed electrical shocks."
"Oh, yes," Inga said vaguely.
Werner sipped his coffee. "And did herr Direktor tell you about the work we're doing here at the Institut?" he said carefully.
"A little."
His thin chest puffed out. "I happen to be a member of the neuroanatomy team that's looking into the question of how the brain and the eye are wired together."
Inga looked blank.
"You know," he said impatiently. "On the problem of why epileptic fits are sometimes induced by flickering light."
Inga nodded vigorously. "Induced," she said.
"Fascinating subject," he said. "There was a woman in Washington who used to have attacks after visiting her parents in Boston. Her doctor thought at first that it was an emotional problem, connected with her visits home. Then it was discovered that she always arrived back at Union Station in Washington at the same time of day. The sun was behind a row of columns that she walked past. The flickering light caused the attacks."
"No, I'm not familiar with that case."
"It was never published," he said triumphantly. "Oh, yes, there are many, many similar cases. There was a boy who brained his sister with a lamp while they were both watching television. There was something wrong with the set. It flickered — apparently at exactly the right rhythm."
"And you're following this up?"
"My team is following it up," Werner said modestly.
"But, Werner, that's marvelous!" She took his hand impulsively. He looked startled. She blushed, and withdrew her hand.
Werner looked flustered but sly. "We've amassed data from over a thousand subjects so far. We're correlating it by computer. Actually, the experiments themselves are rather simple. A variant on the photoflash technique. You're familiar with that, of course."
"Of course."
"We attach electrodes to the subject's scalp. The EEG records the rhythm of his brain waves. We shine a flickering light through his closed eyelids. The rate of the flicker is adjusted by computer. Cells in the cortex discharge in response to each flash. When we reach approximately seven flickers per second, the added strain is too much for the more sensitive cells — the foci responsible for epileptic fits. The EEG begins to show epileptic spikes on the chart. We shut the machine off, of course, before an actual epileptic attack occurs."
"Of course," she said.
"We're all of us potential epileptics," he said nervously. "Some are just more sensitive than others."
"I can't think why the Direktor didn't mention your research to me."
He hesitated. "The Direktor is an old fuddy-duddy," he said. "Zu furchstam. We are taking every precaution, but he worries about another scandal."
"Scandal?"
"The Otero scandal."
Inga shook her head. "What do you mean?"
"Hadn't you heard? It was hushed up, of course, but surely you must have heard some gossip."
Inga gave him a mousy smile. "Word got around, but I was never very clear about it…" She trailed off helplessly.
His eyes were bright and malicious behind his glasses. "The great neurologist, Don Alejandro de Otero y Quimera! Too grand to condescend to mingle with us gewöhnlich folk. Well, I could have warned him about Funke, if he'd cared to listen!"
"Funke?" she said.
"The man looks like an ape, and he is an ape. A sex maniac." He shook his head. "To trust such a man around female subjects!"
"Shocking!" Inga said.
"Oh, I don't deny that Don Alejandro did some brilliant work. The man is a genius. You remember that remarkable series of papers he published a few years ago on the neurological aspects of light and vision?"
"Yes. In fact, I have a footnote on it in my thesis."
"He couldn't have done it without Funke, I admit that. He needed a computer expert to translate his theories into practical experiments. And whatever Funke is, he's an electronic wizard."
"Oh, you have to give him that."
Werner's thin, deprived face showed something like envy. "I wish I knew how the two of them were able to produce epileptic spikes on the EEG without having to plaster electrodes on the subject's head. Something to do with computer feedback, I imagine."
"Probably," Inga said.
She felt a mounting excitement. Here was the sort of information the Baroness was after.
"But we'll never know. He hasn't published anything for two years — ever since that last paper on how the brain's visual centers process different wave lengths of light. He's refused all invitations to address medical conferences. Ashamed to show his face, I suppose."
"The scandal," Inga prompted.
"Ah, yes, the scandal. You know the experiments with rats? How exposing them to light of a constant intensity makes them become sexually aroused, and makes them remain in heat constantly?"
Inga hadn't heard. It sounded fascinating.
"Yes, of course," she said.
"Well, Funke altered his computer program to do the same thing to human, female, subjects."
Inga registered appropriate shock.
"He… took advantage of them," Werner said darkly. "Need I say more?"
Inga blushed.
"Charges were never pressed. The women were too ashamed to complain. After all, Funke could claim they were willing."
Inga dropped her eyes.
"Nobody could prove that Don Alejandro knew anything about it. But that was the end of him at the Institut."
Inga cleared her throat. "Whatever became of Don Alejandro?"
"Just dropped out of sight. I suppose he's retired in luxury to his villa." Werner stared resentfully at his own threadbare sleeve. "The one outside Spain, that is. He's persona non grata with the Spanish
government."
"And where is his villa?"
"Tangier."
She excused herself and went to the ladies' room. She locked herself in a booth and took a little tape recorder out of her handbag — the kind that a graduate student might use for making notes or recording lectures. About one-tenth of its volume was packed with subminiaturized electronic components that would make it work as an ordinary tape recorder, in case anybody ever tried it out. The rest of the space inside was crammed with electronic gear of a very different sort.
She tapped out a message to the Baroness on the little telegraph key that was disguised as the "Fast Rewind" button. The message was stored in the tiny computer memory and electronically scrambled. She connected a wire to the toilet booth's metal door. The entire steel frame of Der Breuer Institut fur Psychologie would act as her antenna. She pressed a button. There was a short, intense burst of radio energy, lasting no more than a fifth of a second. It was picked up by an orbiting earth satellite, three hundred miles overhead. The satellite digested the material for another fifth of a second. Then it threw the electronic ball to a brother satellite, within range of Tangier.
Down below, lying on her stomach on a sun-drenched Moroccan beach, the Baroness felt her skin suddenly tingle under her bikini. She rolled over to toast her other side. The metallic thread woven into the fabric of the bikini picked up the electronic caress from space. She touched one of the decorative buttons on her bikini top, twisting it a certain way. The gesture went unnoticed by the cluster of people around her. She lay there, her breasts pointing skyward, performing their duty as bowl antennae, receiving the coded tingle. The message was repeated three times. The Baroness decoded it in her head.
She chewed her lip thoughtfully. So Don Alejandro could induce a pre-epileptic brain pattern without having to wire up his subjects! But who was this Dr. Funke?
"Why so serious?" Rex Dole said, bending over her. "You look like you've just received inspiration from on high. Come on, I'll race you to the water!"
