Chris winced and reached involuntarily to massage the back of his neck. It was really hurting now.
“Stiff neck?” the man asked.
Chris nodded. “Yeah.”
“I have problems with my neck too, sometimes,” Basy told him. “I hang upside down for it.”
Chris looked at him blankly.
“It’s like a trapeze,” the man explained. “Gravity helps to separate the neck vertebrae.”
“Oh.” Chris nodded. The part of him responding to the man was minor. Most of him was sick inside, getting ready to stand and leave the plane, surrender himself.
Putting the newspaper beside him, he reached beneath the seat in front of him and slid out the overnight bag. Picking it up, he began to stand. “You leaving?” Basy asked. Chris didn’t like his tone and started to edge past him to the aisle, muttering, “Excuse me.”
The man’s grip on his wrist was like steel.
“I wouldn’t do that, Barton,” he said.
Chris stared down dumbly at the man. Basy wasn’t smiling now. “Sit down,” he said.
Chris couldn’t move. All he could do was look at the man.
Basy smiled now, a sympathetic smile. “You have to leave the country, Chris,” he said.
Chris’s legs began to give and Basy braced him up, then helped him back down onto the seat. He took the overnight bag out of Chris’s hand and slid it under the seat in front of Chris.
“Now,” Basy said. He looked at Chris, his expression one of slight exasperation. “I wasn’t supposed to let you know,” he said, “but I couldn’t let you leave either. Why were you leaving?”
Chris didn’t know what to say. After a few moments, he reached to his left and tugged on the folded newspaper. He laid it on Basy’s lap, pointing at the article.
Basy winced. “Oh, jeez,” he said, “I didn’t know that. Poor guy.”
“You know about him?” Chris demanded, unable to keep the sound of anger from his voice.
“I know you spoke to him and he said he’d help you.”
“He did help me,” Chris said tightly. “He got me the ticket for this flight and that bag there.”
“No, we got you the bag,” Basy said. “We would have gotten you the ticket, too, if he hadn’t done it first.”
The vise on his head again. I’m losing touch, he thought; I really am.
“I was sent to go with you to London,” Basy told him. “Help you after you got there.”
Chris drew in a long, wavering breath.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
Basy hesitated, then shrugged. “I can’t tell you much,” he said. He held up his hand to stop Chris from breaking in. “For the simple reason,” he continued, “that I haven’t been told that much myself.”
“Is it the project?” Chris asked quickly.
“Bottom line? Of course,” Basy said. “You’re a very important part of it.”
“Me?” Chris made a scoffing noise. “I’m just a cog.”
“Don’t underestimate yourself,” Basy said grimly. “You know what your contribution means.”
Chris shrugged. “Well,” he said. “You—” He broke off, looking at Basy with suspicion.
“What?” Basy asked.
“How do I know who you are?” Chris said.
Basy took a billfold from his inside coat pocket and opened it. He pulled out a plastic-covered card and showed it to Chris.
James R. Basy, it read. An operative number. Central Intelligence Agency.
“You know Nelson?” Chris asked uneasily.
“Who?”
Chris told Basy about Meehan and Nelson.
“Well, I never heard of them,” Basy said. “But that doesn’t mean anything. There are a lot of agents in the CIA.”
“All working on my case?” Chris asked edgily.
“No.” Basy smiled faintly.
“You don’t know then whether—” Chris broke off.
“Whether what?”
“Whether they’re really CIA,” Chris lied. He’d been about to ask whether Basy knew if Nelson had survived or not. He’d decided, mid-sentence, not to pursue it. If Basy didn’t know about Nelson, let it stay that way.
“What about Veering then?” he asked, handing back the card.
“Who?”
Chris couldn’t control the groan.
“What’s wrong?” Basy asked.
Chris hesitated, then told him about his conversation with Veering. “And Nelson mentioned him,” he added.
“Well, since I don’t know who Nelson is, that doesn’t mean a hell of a lot to me,” Basy said. He grunted with amusement. “This Veering sounds like quite a nut case though.”
“What about the couple in my house?”
“That I know about,” Basy replied. “That’s how I got involved.” He looked around. “Oh, we’re leaving,” he said.
They didn’t speak as the plane backed away from the terminal, then began to taxi along the airfield. Chris tried to convince himself that he was doing the right thing but was unable to do so. Everything seemed wrong to him; distorted, unreal.
After the plane was in the air, Basy spoke to him again. “Okay, we’re on our way,” he said. “I’ve been thinking. Those two men you mentioned; I doubt if they really were CIA. Our orders were to keep an eye on what was going on, not move in and get involved.”
Chris felt a kind of relief at that. Meehan had been so vicious. Nelson had intended to kill him. He would much prefer to believe that they weren’t CIA, that they were—
Were who? Foreign agents? They were obviously American. His brain was starting to reel again.
He started to ask Basy a question when the agent said, “I have to use the rest room, I’ll be right back.” Standing, he moved away.
Chris sank back against the chair. Noticing the drink, he picked it up and took a long swallow. The stewardess came by and asked him if he wanted another and some hors d’oeuvres. He said he would and she moved away.
Chris closed his eyes and tried to form a brief summation in his mind.
It was the project. That was definite. Some kind of cabal taking place against people working on secret military projects. Meehan and Nelson were probably not CIA. Had they killed Gene? And why did he have to leave the country?
He eliminated the questions from his summation. He didn’t want to confuse things. The situation seemed to be falling into some kind of order.
Except for Veering. Would Veering ever fit into what was happening?
The stewardess brought him another screwdriver and a small china plate with some crackers and wedges of cheese on it, a tiny knife. “We’ll be starting lunch service in a little while,” she told him, setting down a pair of menus on Basy’s seat.
Chris finished up the first drink and set it aside. He took a sip of the second screwdriver, then made himself a cracker sandwich with Brie cheese. He felt considerably better now. Some kind of pattern was emerging. He always felt better when patterns emerged. Which was why he’d been so unhappy with, and frustrated by, the project for so many months now.
***
Fifteen minutes later, he twisted around and looked back toward the rest rooms. He’d read part of the Times, finished the crackers, cheese and the second screwdriver and had ordered Chicken Kiev for lunch.
Now he was wondering if something was wrong with Basy.
He looked back at the front and tried to push the feeling away. Goddamn it, don’t get started again, he told himself. As soon as things start clearing up, you insist on muddying the waters again. Basy was performing his A.M. ablutions. He had a stomachache and was hunched over on the john. He’d taken a stewardess in there and was bopping her. Who knows? he thought irritably. He’s fine though. Fine.
Minutes passed. He finished looking through the Times and put it down. He looked out the window at the clouds, at the land below. He tried to feel calm.
It didn’t work. Anxiety was trickling slowly through his thoughts. He tried to re
sist. Relax, he thought. Take it easy. He closed his eyes. Music, he thought. He’d put on the earphones and listen to some classical music.
He looked at his watch. Almost twenty minutes now. He looked toward the back again. A woman was trying to get into one of the rest rooms but it was locked. Is that where Basy is? he wondered.
He swallowed. Could Basy have gone in back of the plane to consult with some other agent? That didn’t make sense. Two agents to escort him? Christ, he was Chris Barton, not Albert Einstein.
He tapped his fingers on the seat arm. He couldn’t listen to music. Not until Basy was back. I’m sorry, he addressed his mind. He should be back by now. Call me paranoiac if you want to but he should be back by now.
“Aw, no,” he said. It wasn’t going to get bad again, was it? It wasn’t going to be Veering-time again, was it?
“Mr. Basy?” he imagined the stewardess saying to him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Barton. There’s no Mr. Basy booked next to you. You’ve been sitting alone since you got on the plane.”
Chris undid his seat belt and stood abruptly, a hard look on his face. Stepping into the aisle, he walked back to the rest rooms. Both of them will be empty now, he thought. And I’ll start screaming.
One of them was still locked. He stared at the word Occupied. By what? he thought.
He stood indecisively. Should he knock on the door and ask Basy how he was? What if that woman answered? You start screaming, answered his mind.
The stewardess came up to him. “This other one is free, Mr. Barton,” she said.
“I know. That’s not—”
She looked at him inquiringly.
He swallowed. “Did you… see a man go in here before?” he asked, pointing at the locked door.
“Mr. Basy, yes,” she answered.
Thank God, he thought. His sound of relief was so obvious that the stewardess looked concerned. “Are you all right?” she asked.
“Yes. Yes,” he assured her. I am now, he thought.
She smiled and walked away.
He waited for a few moments, then knocked softly on the door.
There was no answer so he knocked again. He leaned in close to ask, “Are you all right, Basy?”
Silence.
Chris shuddered. Oh, God, now what? he thought. He’s had a heart attack? He’s been poisoned? He’s in there, dead?
He hesitated, then knocked more loudly. “Basy?” he asked.
Some people looked around and the stewardess returned. “Is something wrong?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “This… Mr. Basy was sitting next to me. Then he went to the rest room.” He swallowed again. “This was more than twenty minutes ago. Now…”
“Yes?” she asked.
“He doesn’t answer my knock. I’ve called his name. I—”
“You think something’s wrong.”
There it was. He didn’t want to speak the words. But there was something wrong.
“Do you know if he has any kind of medical condition?” she asked.
“I don’t even know the man,” he said, aware that he sounded agitated.
“I see,” she said.
She turned to the door and knocked on it loudly. “Mr. Basy?”
There was no answer.
“Oh, dear,” she said.
“Can’t you open the door?” he asked.
“Well… yes; I can, but… I wouldn’t want to embarrass him—”
“Embarrass?” he broke in. “He’s not answering. There’s something wrong.”
He tried to open the door but couldn’t.
“It’s locked,” she said.
Oh, bright, he thought angrily. He was starting to feel dizzy. Was the nightmare starting again?
He pounded on the door with the side of a fist. “Basy!” he shouted.
“Please, Mr. Barton,” the stewardess said.
“Well, damn it, open it then,” he told her.
She stared at him uncertainly. Goddamn it, open the fucking door! he wanted to shout. If you’d been through what I have in the past day, you’d goddamn kick it in!
The stewardess moved quickly to an overhead bin. Reaching in, she took out an odd-looking tool and brought it back. She used it on the door and reached out to open it. She won’t be able to do it, he suddenly thought. Basy’s dead body will block the way.
The stewardess opened the door.
“Oh, well, this is peculiar,” she said.
Chris felt himself weaving back and forth. He’d never fainted in his life. He felt sure that he was going to faint now.
The rest room was empty.
“I don’t understand this,” the stewardess murmured.
You don’t understand it… Chris thought. “You… saw him go in,” he said in a shaky voice.
“Yes.” She was staring into the empty rest room. “I did.”
“Is it possible to lock the door from the outside?”
She looked confused.
“I mean could he have come out, closed the door and locked it from out here?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’ve never seen it done.”
She stepped into the rest room and looked around. She started as though an electric shock had struck her.
Chris stepped in to see what she was looking at. There was something scrawled on the mirror with a Magic Marker. Chris could just make out the writing in the dim light.
7 steps to midnight.
PART 2
1
He tried not to think as he walked through the terminal. He asked one question: where were the taxis? The man he asked directed him and he went outside. He looked around for the closest cab, then found it unnecessary to signal as one of the small, square black taxis curved in and stopped in front of him, the driver opening the door.
Chris got inside and fell back on the seat. “Park Court Hotel,” he said.
“Right away, guv’nor,” the driver said. Closing the door, he pulled the cab away from the curb. “American?” he asked.
Chris smiled tiredly. “How d’ya know?” he asked.
“Not difficult,” the driver said.
Chris’s responding chuckle was barely audible. He put the overnight bag on the floor, stretched out his legs and, groaning softly, closed his eyes. He wished he had a sleeping pill. He’d like to sleep for about a day and a half.
He’d given up the hope that he would wake up in his house and, grinning to himself, think, Good Jesus, was that ever a dream.
It was all reality, he knew that now. Demented, disjointed, distorted reality but reality nonetheless.
He hadn’t slept at all on the flight. Despite exhaustion, his brain would simply not relinquish consciousness. How could it? On top of every other madness he’d been exposed to was Basy’s disappearance.
It had been assumed, at first, that Basy was in some other part of the plane. What else could they assume? He’d left the lavatory without being seen and, in leaving, accidentally locked the door behind him. He was no phantom. The stewardess had seen him enter the plane, had spoken to him, had seen him take his place beside Chris. She’d seen him rise and enter the lavatory.
That was the last she saw of him.
Basy wasn’t in the plane. It was that simple fact that jarred Chris the most. He’d spoken with the man. Basy was as real as he was. Then he’d vanished into thin air, leaving behind a note scrawled on a mirror.
7 steps to midnight.
“Oh, God,” Chris murmured. He shifted uncomfortably on the seat. Problems all had solutions; he’d lived by that tenet, it had never betrayed him. No matter what the problem was, eventually he’d found an answer to it.
Until now.
While they were checking over the plane, he’d sat and waited. What had bothered him most was the continuation of banal details all around him. The serving of the meal. The showing of the movie. The murmuring of people as they spoke. The constant din of the engines. All reality. And, in the midst of it, him, an island of impending madness.
When the stewardess, looking pale, had finally returned to tell him that, no, they were terribly sorry but Mr. Basy was nowhere to be found, Chris had thanked her quietly and politely, then sat staring at the film without seeing or hearing a moment of it.
After a while he’d picked up Basy’s overnight bag and checked the contents.
What he found comforted and shocked him simultaneously.
A reservation order in his name for a hotel named the Park Court. An envelope of British money: a half-inch-thick packet of five-pound and one-pound notes. A passport.
His.
He hadn’t been able to control the tremor of his hands as he opened it. He’d never had a passport in his life, never dreamed that he would ever have the time to travel overseas. And the photograph. It was undoubtedly him but he couldn’t recall ever having it taken.
His head had felt numb as he’d leafed through the pages of the passport. Ah, good, he’d thought dazedly as he looked at the stamps. Chris Barton was obviously a world traveler. Tahiti. Fiji. New Caledonia. Australia. China. I hope I had a good time, he’d thought.
He’d closed his eyes abruptly. Jesus Christ. How much more could be endure? Was anything what it seemed to be?
For a short while, he’d really entertained the idea that something in his work had caused him to sideslip into an alternate reality. He’d read about it often enough. Was it an actual possibility? Thought lay behind all physical events. Wilbur and Orville thought flight and an airplane resulted. Tesla dreamed of alternating current and the world had electricity. Einstein thought E = Mc2 and Hiroshima was obliterated.
Had something in his work created this nightmare?
“Oh, shut up,” he muttered. He opened his eyes and looked around. The cab was chugging along an entry road toward a freeway. Do they call them freeways here? he wondered. Expressways? Highways?
He clenched his teeth for a moment and closed his eyes again, determined not to succumb to destructive thinking. There were solid details here; it wasn’t all an evanescent mystery. There was the passport; that was real. The money. The hotel reservation. The flight ticket. The overnight bag with clothes and toilet articles, with medication for Christ’s sake. And the pistol. How real could you get? These were items you could deal with. Items that led one to believe that the mysteries—however inexplicable they seemed at the moment—would eventually be solved.
7 Steps to Midnight Page 9
