The well born, truly rich are used to having their own way. They are seldom opposed or contradicted, and usually protected against their own bad manners or errors in judgement. And everyone laughs at their jokes. This happy state of affairs—happy for the beneficiaries, not for their flunkies, of course—imparts an indefinable quality that can best be described as oblivious self-confidence. The man sitting in the booth furthest away from the entrance to the coffee shop had that quality.
He also had faded blue eyes, which were rather piercing.
‘William?’ Gabriel held out his hand.
The blue eyes surveyed him for a long moment, their expression slightly calculating, as though the man was trying to make up his mind about something. Then, unhurriedly, he held out his own hand. His grip was firm but not crushing.
‘Gabriel. Thank you for coming. Please sit down.’
Gabriel slid into his seat and a waitress with a mournful smile approached the booth. ‘Coffee?’
‘Yes, please. And poached eggs on toast. Three eggs. Runny.’
The man opposite Gabriel made a negative gesture with his hand. ‘Nothing for me, thank you.’ Up close he was quite a bit older than he had appeared from outside. His movements were effortless but the skin around his mouth was dry and raddled with tiny grooves. He was very thin.
Gabriel looked him full in the face and smiled. ‘Before we start, a few ground rules. I take it you have an information-gathering problem and you think I might be able to supply a solution. I probably can. But first I need to know your full name. I like to know who I’m dealing with. And then we can take it from there.’ He finished with another smile, calculated to diminish the sting of his little speech. It was always best to get straight down to business. Sometimes prospective clients entered into a long courtship dance, too embarrassed to come straight out with what they had in mind. It could be very tiring.
‘By all means,’ the man said courteously. ‘My name is William Whittington.’
He had been right about the money. William Whittington. Well, well. Philanthropist and investment banker who had managed to add substantially to an already vast fortune inherited from his grandfather. A brilliant strategist. And a bit of a recluse. This could be interesting.
It was also puzzling. Why would Whittington meet him in person? Gabriel did not usually deal with players at this level. In the normal swing of things he did not get to see CEOs, board directors or other members of top management. He was usually approached by someone much lower down the food chain. William Whittington was taking a big risk.
Whittington smiled faintly. ‘You’re right, of course. I do have a problem and I do have need of your special talents. Although maybe not quite in the way you expect.’
For a moment Gabriel had the uncomfortable feeling that Whittington was enjoying a private joke at his expense. Before he could respond, the waitress reappeared and plonked a chipped white plate down in front of him.
‘Three eggs, runny. Right?’
‘Right.’ He looked at Whittington. ‘Are you sure you won’t join me?’
Whittington shook his head. He was looking at the plate with a mixture of amusement, horror and respect. ‘I couldn’t possibly. But please go ahead.’
The eggs were exactly as he liked them. After taking a bite, he said, ‘You were saying?’
‘Do you have children, Gabriel?’
That was a new one. ‘No, I don’t.’
‘I have a son.’ Whittington’s face was suddenly set, no hint of amusement left in his eyes. ‘His name is Robert. Robert Whittington. He is twenty-one years old.’ A pause. ‘He is missing.’
‘Missing?’
‘He disappeared nine months ago. I want you to find him.’
Gabriel lowered his fork to his plate. ‘I think you might have been misinformed about what I do. I’m an information broker. I’m not a private investigator. I don’t look for missing people.’
‘But you used to.’ A long pause. ‘At Eyestorm.’
For a moment Gabriel felt as though the oxygen had been sucked from the room. He tried to keep his face expressionless, to wipe away the shock he knew must be reflected on his face. He found himself focusing intently on a black fly which was walking delicately along the very edge of the Formica-topped table. It was the warm weather: the city was crawling with them.
‘Gabriel?’ The man opposite him was watching him speculatively.
‘I can’t help you.’ He took a deep breath and carefully wiped his mouth with his paper napkin. ‘You and I have no business. I am sorry about your son, but you should be talking to the police, not to me.’ He was trying to keep his voice calm.
‘Don’t you want to know how I know about Eyestorm?’
‘Not particularly.’ The fly had taken flight. It settled on the rim of the sugar bowl on the table in the next booth.
‘Cecily told me.’
He had started to edge out of his seat, but at this he stopped. ‘Cecily. Cecily Franck?’
‘Yes.’
‘Frankie is in the United States.’
Whittington shook his head. ‘Not any more. For the past two years she’s been living in London.’
‘You’re mistaken again. She would never come back here.’
‘She is back.’ Whittington smiled, rather sadly. ‘I know that for a fact. You see, we were married two years ago. She’s my wife.’
CHAPTER THREE
‘Call me Frankie,’ she had said the first time they were introduced. ‘Everyone does. Cecily was my grandmother’s name. And to tell you the truth, I was never fond of the old lady. She was a mean broad.’
She smiled widely—a delightful smile—and Gabriel found himself smiling back. Not exactly pretty, Cecily Franck was nevertheless immensely attractive. Narrow face. Light brown hair springing from her forehead in a widow’s peak. A sweet mouth and surprisingly shrewd eyes. Flawless skin. Her voice was low but carrying, her American accent pronounced in that room filled with the hum of British voices.
He looked around him. There must have been close to forty guests in the large old-fashioned living room of Alexander Mullins’s Oxford house. The room had a tired feel to it, with its dusty moss-green carpet, fringed lamps and porcelain knick-knacks. The guests, all of them sipping lukewarm wine and nibbling on pieces of rubbery cheese, were an odd-looking bunch. Judging from the information displayed on their name tags, they seemed to come from different walks of life and from different parts of the UK. Frankie was obviously American but her name tag stated simply that she was a student. As did his own, which was probably why they had instinctively sought each other out. The only common denominator linking all the guests was that each person present was there because he or she had responded to the same advertisement in one of the national newspapers.
‘What do you think of him?’ Frankie’s eyes had followed his gaze to where a tall thin man with an impressively aquiline nose was talking to a woman with an eager expression.
‘Mullins?’ Gabriel shrugged. ‘Too soon to tell.’
‘He doesn’t look anything like I thought he would.’ Frankie’s voice was dubious.
‘What did you expect—someone clutching a crystal ball?’
She smiled ruefully. ‘Someone more colourful, at least. You know what I mean.’
‘Well, the man’s a scientist. They’re not usually known for their flamboyance.’ But Gabriel knew what she meant. Considering the reason for tonight’s meeting, she could be forgiven for expecting someone a little more theatrical. Not that Mullins was the kind of man you could ignore. His eyes behind the incongruous cat’s-eye spectacles were cold but laser-sharp. And his reputation was impressive.
Alexander Mullins was an eminent neuropsychologist with a thirty-year research background in statistical methods and cognitive processes. But his true passion lay in the field of psychic phenomena. Eyestorm. The reason this motley collection of people had gathered here tonight.
‘Can I ask you something?’
‘O
f course.’ Gabriel glanced at her enquiringly.
‘Do you…’ Frankie hesitated, coloured. ‘Do you feel a little silly being here? You know, don’t you feel like this is all just too woo-woo?’
He smiled, but before he could answer Alexander Mullins was tapping a knife on the stem of his wine glass. The hum of voices ceased and all eyes turned towards the host.
‘Welcome. I am very pleased you have decided to attend tonight’s meeting.’ Despite his words, Mullins’s voice lacked warmth. ‘The fact that you have responded to my advertisement means that all of you believe you may be in possession of a latent talent—a rare gift. Tonight will be the first step in determining if that is the case.’ A wintry smile. ‘Not all of you will be successful. But if you are, you will receive an invitation to join a great adventure…’
• • •
But in the end, of the forty-seven original participants, only three made the grade. After six months, only Gabriel, Frankie and a middle-aged plumber called Norman were invited to join an existing group of psychics known collectively as Eyestorm.
Eyestorm was the British equivalent of the American STARGATE project. First launched in the United States by the US Department of Defense, STARGATE was designed to study real-life applications of telepathy and clairvoyance or, as it subsequently became known, ‘remote viewing’.
The term ‘remote viewing’ was chosen on purpose. It was considered an acceptable, neutral term and was adopted by two physicists at the Stanford Research Institute, Dr Harold Puthoff and Russell Targ, who were involved in some of the earliest work. As Mullins explained that first night, ‘Unfortunately, terms such as “clairvoyance” and “telepathy”, which could have been useful, have been hijacked by charlatans. We needed something fresh in their place. “Remote viewing” is a term not yet tarnished by the exploits of fake psi practitioners.’
Gabriel lifted his hand. ‘There are those who would argue that psi practitioners are by definition fake.’
Mullins’s cold eyes glittered from behind his spectacles. ‘Mr… Blackstone, is it? If you’re not a believer in psi, why are you here tonight?’ Without giving Gabriel a chance to answer, he continued, ‘Please accept my assurance that STARGATE’s exploration into inner consciousness was based on very strict scientific methods. And this is the way we work at Eyestorm as well.’
He looked away from Gabriel and allowed his eyes to travel over the faces of his audience. ‘Let me be very clear indeed,’ he said forcefully. ‘The protocols used at Eyestorm are exceptionally rigorous. This is not a forum for Loch Ness searches or UFO sightings.’
Even though Eyestorm was largely following the model and ideals of STARGATE, there was one big difference, Mullins continued. Unlike their American cousin, which received federal funding before it was closed down in the 1990s, Eyestorm did not benefit from direct government sponsorship. The group had to rely on fees paid by private clients and, as Mullins explained with a self-deprecating smile, on the considerable inherited wealth of its founder member. The approach of the two groups was very similar, however. Both Eyestorm and STARGATE were firmly oriented towards results in the outside world. The two units were not merely think tanks; their research was applied to real blood-and-guts problems.
One of the bigger successes of the American unit was in tracking down smugglers of illegal narcotics. Working with the US Coast Guard, STARGATE’s remote viewers had used their clairvoyant skills to identify suspect ships and in several instances had been able to sketch the exact location of hidden drug caches. Another notable achievement was helping an American Air Force search team track down a downed Soviet aeroplane in Africa. A remote viewer managed to pinpoint the site to within three miles of the downed aircraft.
In contrast, Eyestorm’s clients were not government-affiliated but people who turned to it after exhausting the more conventional routes of police and private investigators. Many of Eyestorm’s cases involved tracking down stolen artworks or lost heirlooms. And then there were the search and rescue missions. Using their remote viewing skills, Eyestorm members would assist in finding missing relatives and hostages.
This was what attracted Frankie: the human factor. ‘Just think how awful it must be, Gabriel, not to know if a loved one is truly lost. Isn’t it wonderful that we can bring peace of mind to these people?’
He nodded in agreement but in his heart of hearts he knew that for him the attraction lay elsewhere. Remote viewing was power. He revelled in the opportunity to exercise this unique talent that was hardwired into his brain. For him it was a rush. For Frankie it was a calling.
Ah, Frankie. Frankie of the soft mouth and bright mind. Frankie, who slept with the nightlight on because she was afraid of the dark, but did not hesitate to confront a street thug menacing an elderly shopper. Frankie, who was laughter and comfort and serenity. When they met in Mullins’s living room, they had liked each other on sight. Their connection was strong, immediate and blessedly uncomplicated. And liking soon turned to love.
The transition had been free of the extreme mood swings and passionate excesses usually associated with a first romance. This wasn’t thunderclap stuff. It was an exceptional friendship gradually elevated to a more intimate level. Around them on campus, fellow students were involved in brief, passionate flings; testing their boundaries, experimenting at love. He and Frankie did it differently. It was a remarkably mature relationship considering it started when they were both only eighteen years old.
Still, it probably was their youth that finally let them down. If they had been older, they might have weathered Eyestorm a whole lot better. Instead of being blown apart, they might have been able to emerge from that whirlwind without the anger—or, worse, the terrible sense of disappointment they had ended up feeling in each other.
Eyestorm tore them apart. But Eyestorm also forged a bond between them that was unbreakable. And it created an environment where they could give free rein to the exceptional and mysterious talent they shared.
Remote viewing. Second sight. The Gift. The Shining. In the end, though, they all came down to the same thing. And ever since he was a little boy Gabriel had been aware of it: a tiny bump in his unconscious.
To begin with he had no way to explain what it was, either to himself or to others. Only after joining Eyestorm was he taught the concept of ‘psi space’: that nebulous field of information which encapsulates the accumulated knowledge of different minds. It was explained to him that as a psi-sensitive he already had a highly developed neurophysiological network in place, which made it possible for him to enter the psi environment and merge his thoughts with information generated by the minds of others. With practice, he would be able to pick up on the resonance of those thoughts with increasing ease.
As a small boy, of course, he had been unable to articulate what was happening to him. All he knew was that he had an uncanny ability to track down missing things—to ‘see’ where they were. He did not test this ability and he certainly did not receive encouragement from his family to develop his talent. His mother reacted suspiciously the few times he found objects that had been lost or misplaced by members of the family, accusing him of hiding them himself in an attempt to get attention. After Jack, his older brother, beat him up because he had inadvertently betrayed his secret hiding place, he decided firmly that this was not a talent worth exploring. No one else seemed to share his gift, and it made him feel different. And who the hell, at that age, wanted to feel different?
Maybe, he thought, if he ignored this weird skill, it would go away. By his late teens, however, he realised it wasn’t going to be that easy. Wishing it away was not going to work. He was stuck with it.
The realisation brought him to Eyestorm and Alexander Mullins.
Alexander Benedict Mullins. The name sounded intimidating. The man certainly was. For three years Mullins was his mentor and surrogate father. Not that there was anything even remotely paternal about the way Mullins treated him. The man was not given to extravagant praise or, f
or that matter, any kind of feel-good interaction with his students. But the loyalty and admiration he inspired among his remote viewers were undeniable. Gabriel, although he would never admit to it, vied fiercely with the other RVs at Eyestorm to gain Mullins’ approval.
He knew the older man thought him arrogant. ‘Remember,’ Mullins would preach. ‘Never, ever fall in love with your gift. Never allow yourself to become blinded by its light. It is merely an ability—like having perfect pitch. Psi sensitivity is widespread in the general populace. A policeman’s hunch, a woman’s intuition—these are everyday examples of latent psi ability. Yes, only a small number of people are truly psi-skilled. People like you. But the talent for remote viewing is not something you’ve earned: you can’t take credit for it. It is merely something you were born with.’
But even though there was friction between student and teacher, they needed each other. Gabriel required the older man’s help to impose some kind of discipline on a gift that was wildly unpredictable. And if Mullins nursed misgivings about his pupil, he was nevertheless tremendously excited by the systematically high level of hits scored by Gabriel during that first year of training. In all his years of research Mullins had never come across a subject who performed as consistently.
What interested Mullins in particular was Gabriel’s versatility. Most remote viewers had a particular cognitive style which they favoured and followed almost exclusively. Some RVs were more successful in accessing targets while awake, others were incapable of psi activity unless they made use of dreams, lucid or otherwise; yet another group relied on a deep meditative state to do their work. Some scored better at accessing and describing landmarks, objects and geometric shapes; others preferred to home in on personal aspects such as feelings and thoughts. Gabriel, though, showed no preference for any specific cognitive style, and was able to describe visual configurations as well as emotional impressions with equal ease.
Writ in Water Page 3
