The Eldridge Conspiracy

by Stephen Ames Berry

  Chapter 15

  She sat on the slope of her special rock, the one like a miniature Gibraltar, looking out to sea. Huddling against the raw Atlantic wind, hugging her knees to her, she savored the biting cold air and the violence of the dark green water smashing against the cliffs. A storm was coming in, rolling off the ocean into the harbor, dark clouds marching toward the island and the city beyond. Behind her in the old stone house her uncle had guests, and she knew that she was expected—should have been there to greet them. But she wanted to sit here a bit longer, between the crashing surf and raucous gulls wheeling over the island and look out across the untamed Atlantic. Her friends the gray harbor seals were nowhere to be seen, probably long gone to safety.

  Far off, a giant multi-domed liquefied natural gas hauler was making its careful way toward distant Boston Light and the open ocean. The day sailors and the local cruise ships that filled the Inner Harbor in the summer were gone, their season over.

  “Bet the seals are gone.”

  She turned, startled. “Hey Johnny! I didn’t hear you,” she smiled.

  Johnny Kim was standing beside her, looking at the rocks below. He wore a black turtleneck sweater and a knit sailor’s cap, a cellphone in a worn leather carrying case riding on his belt.

  “Kinda hard to, what with the wind and the water,” he said.

  Johnny owned Kim Construction, the general contractor her uncle used whenever there was remodeling or repair work to be done on the island.

  “How’s the job going?” Maria asked.

  “Maybe you can tell me,” he said. Actually, he said “Maybe chews can twell me.” A Korean accent underlay his blue-collar Bostonian one. Johnny Kim had come to the Bay State from Seoul as a teenager and grown up in working-class Dorchester, giving him a mixed linguistic heritage that he still carried with him in his thirties.

  “What do you mean?” she asked. Unwinding from atop her rock, she jumped lightly to the ground.

  He shrugged. “Wouldn’t want any of this to get back to your uncle, okay?”

  “It won’t.” Johnny had been around, on and off, for about two years now. He was intelligent and funny and Maria found him cute, in a tough guy, gangsterish way. And her uncle had little criticism of his work—a rarity.

  “The original specs for rehabbing part of the fort called for converting a few of the old galleries into offices, running in the electricity, plumbing, HVAC, stuff like that. Now he wants a separate generator—big one—and industrial strength electrical. Plus the whole fort is to be converted into living quarters and lab facilities. And your uncle wants it done yesterday. Money, he don’t care about. Just get it done.”

  “Really,” said Maria reflexively. This was new. Uncle Richard ran a private psychiatric hospital on the island—had for years, though the number of patients had dwindled. And now just when she thought he might be easing into retirement, what his frequent getaways to Europe, he’d suddenly begun expanding into Ft. Strong. “I really don’t know, Johnny,” she said. “Is there a problem?”

  The contractor shook his head. “No. Just kinda curious. I mean, the money’s okay, you know? But what’s he going to do with all that space? And with those gas and power specs? Open a manufacturing plant?”

  “Did you ask him?”

  Johnny laughed. “You’re a funny lady, you know?”

  “He can be a little intimidating.”

  “A little? With that stare? All he needs is a monocle.”

  She was surprised that Johnny knew what a monocle was, but quickly forgot as she saw a familiar figure hurrying toward them from the house. “Flee. The ogre comes. I’ll ask him, though. Promise.”

  “Don’t mention me.”

  “I won’t.”

  Johnny left, walking up the path toward the fort entrance and his construction site trailer. Maria stood watching the water, turning as her uncle arrived.

  “Such primal majesty to the sea, isn’t there?” he said. “I never tire of it.”

  “Come to drag me back to the house, Uncle Richard?” she said with a smile.

  Schmidla laughed, shaking his head. “No, my dear. But it would be nice if you could join us. Just for a bit.”

  “I have to go to the mainland soon.”

  “A few moments only, Maria. Please? For your old uncle?”

  Schmidla didn’t look all at that old: sixtyish, medium of height, a spare build with a full head of wavy black hair and green eyes set in a thin, ascetic face—quick intelligent eyes that missed nothing. His expression, as often, was one of detached, almost sardonic amusement—an expression that left the impression of a man confident in his superiority—a man who found people to be generally uninteresting but sometimes amusing and useful.

  Maria kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Okay. For my old Uncle. Though Admiral Whitsun always looks as though he’s constipated,” she said as they walked across the field toward the house.

  Schmidla laughed. “He’d be flattered to hear you say that. But you are right. One is tempted to blame his military career for that, but I suspect he was born...constipated.” The years had erased his accent—only his formal sentence structure hinted at an origin other than American. Well turned-out, he wore a Harris tweed jacket with leather-patched elbows over a black cashmere sweater, wool-worsted trousers and a pair of Italian loafers—attire he thought casual.

  “Was that the ubiquitous Mr. Kim I saw you with just now?” he asked. They looked up at the sudden roar of a jet passing low overhead.

  “He’s doing some substantial additional work, isn’t he?” asked Maria as the plane disappeared across the harbor toward Logan Airport.

  “Getting ready to. Surely he wasn’t complaining?”

  “No. What are you up to, Uncle Richard?”

  “Indulging my desire to make money, my dear. You may have noticed that business has fallen off?”

  “Fallen off?” she said. “The old place is more a ghost town than ever.”

  “All too true. However, we are ideally suited to take advantage of the biotech and software revolutions. The greater Boston-area doesn’t have enough facilities for all the companies and startup ventures that want to be here, near the universities. I can offer a lovely oceanfront venue, thirty minutes from Cambridge, with a bridge to the mainland, historic charm and excellent security. I’ll provide state-of-the art research facilities, leased for top dollar or perhaps a modest equity position in my tenants’ firms.”

  “But the island belongs to the City of Boston.”

  “Yes. And I have a ninety-nine year lease that permits subletting. It was written when the Harbor Islands were considered worthless glacial drumlins fit only for garbage dumps. That was back when the city was building the expressway it’s about to demolish,” he chuckled.

  “What a devil you are!” exclaimed Maria.

  “Some would agree with you, my dear,” said Schmidla as they walked up the worn old granite steps to the house.

  “You’ve never seemed an entrepreneur. It’s out of character. When did you think of all this?”

  “A few months ago, when I dimly realized that specialized commercial real estate development is booming. When I was your age, Maria, my family, which had always been wealthy, lost everything. Life in Germany after the war was very difficult. I suspect that the only thing worse than having always been poor is to have been rich and then poor. I’ve never since taken money for granted.”

  They entered Hull House through the oak-paneled front hallway with its broad white pine floors and faded oriental runner. The open double doors of the front parlor were to their left, Schmidla’s office to the right, its door closed and locked. Further on a carpeted stairway with an oak banister curved up to the top two stories.

  They stepped into the parlor, a cheery room with long windows looking across the island toward the sea. A fire burned low in a fieldstone fireplace flanked by bookcases with an eclectic selection of works in German, French and English: medicine, physics, history, literature.
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  Whitsun and Erik Saunders rose from the sofa.

  “Very nice to see you again, Maria,” said Whitsun, taking her hand. “Congratulations on your appointment.”

  “Thank you, Admiral, but it’s just an untenured associate professorship.”

  “Doesn’t matter, my dear,” he said. “It’s Harvard.”

  “Let’s hope that in about two years some other university’s appointment committee is as equally impressed,” she smiled politely. As a talented woman academic, Maria knew her chances of tenure at Harvard to be infinitesimal. She was still enough of an idealist for that to bother her.

  “Surely some senior faculty will recommend you for a tenure track?” said Whitsun.

  “Harvard has far more heads than spines, Admiral,” said Maria. “In a few years I’ll move on to another university.”

  “My grandson, Erik Saunders,” said Whitsun, belatedly making the introductions.

  Erik looked faintly stunned, Schmidla noted, amused. Maria had that effect on men.

  “Hi,” she said, shaking his hand. Pretty-boy-jock, she decided.

  “Nice to meet you,” he said. I’m in lust, he thought, desire stirring in him for the first time since the trouble that bitch Angie had caused him. Looks stuck-up, but those Ivy girls could be vixens in bed. Bet I’d be peeling those tight little Lands End jeans off her on the first date. He sighed to himself, knowing that he wouldn’t have the opportunity.

  “Erik kindly drove me over from the airport. He’ll be joining GDR on a project down in New Mexico, as soon as he’s vetted,” said Whitsun.

  “I’m going to be a project manager,” said Erik.

  Wow, thought Maria, nodding distantly.

  “Erik’s decided to come onboard after many fine years in the Navy,” said Whitsun.

  Do I detect a hint of sarcasm? thought Maria. Admiral Whitsun? Impossible.

  “Unfortunately,” continued Whitsun, “he does have to go back to Washington this afternoon, but I wanted him to meet you two. Especially you, Richard. He’s heard me speak of you so often over the years.”

  “You’re very gracious, Terry,” said Schmidla. “Perhaps someday you’ll be as much as a diplomat as your grandfather, Erik. He was a sort of ambassador plenipotentiary when we first met,” he added, remembering Whitsun plucking him from that stinking POW cage.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go,” said Maria, enjoying Erik’s crestfallen look. “I’ve an appointment in town.” She carefully avoided mentioning that she was lecturing tonight, afraid Erik might invite himself along. And, she thought, closing the hall door firmly behind her, my tight little Lands End jeans are going to stay right on my tight little Ivy ass, sailor.

  “Erik, why don’t you take a walk around the island?” suggested Whitsun as Maria’s car crunched down the shell-paved road toward the bridge to the mainland. “Richard and I have some business to discuss.”

  “It’s lovely and parts of the old fort are quaint,” added Schmidla. “So, anything good to report?” he continued after Erik had reluctantly left.

  “Despite last night’s debacle in New Orleans,” said Whitsun, “yes. Phil Martin’s out of the brig,” he said with faint distaste, “and will be rounding up two of the third-generation Eldridgers in the area. We found out who aided Milano in New Orleans—he’s been dealt with. And we’re looking for the people who have the roster – with CIA help. They can’t hide forever.”

  “Why haven’t you replaced Martin?” asked Schmidla. “He seems very out of his depth.”

  “He is,” said Whitsun. “I’m looking at replacements now. About the list, Richard,” continued Whitsun. “Remember, for immediate purposes, it doesn’t matter if we have only a partial list, so long as we get at least two useful Potentials.”

  “And that you get them now,” said Schmidla, as his housekeeper, a heavy, taciturn woman with hooded, deep-set eyes, wheeled in the tea dolly.

  “We’ll serve ourselves, Mrs. MacDonald,” said Schmidla. “Thank you. How many new third-generation Potentials have you identified?” he asked as the door closed.

  “Forty-one,” said Whitsun. “We’ll get to the rest as soon as we can. They’re not going anywhere.

  “You’re far too confident, Terry. You’re lucky you recovered any of those names. Your tea.”

  “Let me worry about getting you your Potentials,” said Whitsun, accepting a steaming cup of Earl Grey. “What you should be worrying about are the results—our sponsors have made it clear that if we don’t produce awe-inspiring, repeatable results, they’ll close us down and divert our funding to the main project.”

  “This is the main project!” said Schmidla. “They’re just too imperceptive to realize it. Out there, playing around with their field generators, mired in their physics, moving metal about, while we transmute time and space from here.” He tapped his temple.

  “You have to prove that, totally and irrefutably, Richard.”

  “Give me those Eldridge descendants and I will.”

  “It has to work the first time, and very soon, or we’re finished.”

  “Finished in America, perhaps,” said Schmidla. “There is alternate funding available.” He ignored the narrowing of Whitsun’s eyes. “I’ve made some inquiries of old friends and there is keen interest out there. Not everyone has forgotten the von Blücher.”

  “Richard, this is an American project. Always has been, always will be. I’ll destroy the project and you before I let you take it offshore.”

  “I was referring to working with an allied nation, not North Korea.”

  “Many people don’t trust Germany, ally or not. I’m one of them. Take this any further, I’ll bring it all down on our heads. I’ll go to jail and you’ll go to the gallows. Clear?”

  “Terry, Terry, you get so excited,” said Schmidla, smiling as he patted the other man’s arm.

  “Don’t patronize me, Richard,” said Whitsun, jerking his arm away.

  Schmidla shrugged. “It was just a thought. You know my dedication to this project. As to my gracing the gallows, well, by now, I doubt I could be convicted—surely I’ve outlived all potential witnesses for the prosecution?”

  “I’m sure they left heart-rending affidavits. And how Richard, would you explain why you look to be in your early sixties? You’re forty years older than me.”

  “I’ll tell them I made a Faustian pact: knowledge and long life in exchange for my small tattered soul.”

  “Truth to that.” Whitsun poured himself a cup of tea. “You’re about to have a visitor—one who’ll be here for a while.”

  “Really?” Schmidla’s smile faded. “Who?”

  “Deputy Assistant Director for Central Intelligence Willard C. Budd. He’ll be on-site until you’ve either demonstrated the proof of your theories or until this project is terminated by Mr. Budd. Budd represents Rourke, who represents our sponsors.”

  “Budd,” said Schmidla. “Wasn’t he associated with Telemachus years ago?”

  “Yes,” said Whitsun. “One of many. Unlike us, he’s moved on.”

  “Can Budd really close us down?”

  “Yes. He can make our funding disappear,” he snapped a finger, “like that. But, Richard, unless we prove our value we’re going to be closed down, even if you do get your Potentials. Budd can just drop the curtain somewhat sooner. You’ll need to do your usual dog-and-pony for him.”

  “And when does he arrive?”

  “In a few days—we’ll be advised. Rumor is he’s not very happy with his assignment.”

  Billy Budd watched the packers put the last of the boxes containing his personal items onto the hand truck and wheel it out of his office. Once inspected and released by Security, they’d be shipped to his lakefront home in nearby Reston. Thirty years of awards and (sanitized) memorabilia. He planned to have them stored in his cool, crisp, climate controlled basement and never, ever open a single box. His grandchildren, once they got a little older, could enjoy entire afternoons of discovery, r
ummaging through the contents. He was sorry he didn’t have a big dry-smelling attic for them to explore, such as his folks had had, but there was a lot of neat stuff for them to unearth.

  “Leaving us?”

  Budd turned toward the familiar voice. His boss, Harry Rourke stood in the doorway.

  “I’ve turned in my papers. I’m using the rest of my annual leave and then I’ll just fade away. Please, no farewell ceremony. I sent you an email,” he added.

  “Yes, thank you, Billy, and I read it.” Stepping into the office, he pulled the door shut behind him. Rourke looked around the big corner suite, now quite barren. “Great digs. And a view to die for,” he added, glancing out the window across the canopy of trees toward the distant Potomac. “How long have you had this office?”

  “Forever,” said Budd, wishing Rourke would cut to the chase.

  “Amazing,” said the Director. He perched himself on the side of Billy’s desk. “Forget taking the annual leave—we’ll pay you for it. I need you for just one more small task.”

  “Have Accounting do it,” said Budd, sinking into his desk chair—the last chair in the office. “You’ve had me counting budget beans for the last year. Hardly a vote of confidence for a senior operations officer.”

  Rourke shrugged. “You know I don’t like you, I know you don’t like me. But you’re one of the few here who knows about Telemachus in all its aspects. And the only one besides me who knows what it’s all about. You were in on the start, weren’t you?”

  “I’m not quite that old,” said Budd, “But yes, I was involved back in the early 70’s.”

  “Our mutual friend and former colleague, Mr. Jimbo. Heard anything from him?”

  Budd shook his head. “No. But Freddy Kessler told me about his visit with him.”

  “That didn’t work.”

  “I heard.”

  “I need you to go up to Boston for a few days and assess just where that project’s at,” continued Rourke. “Whitsun believes that they’ll have some sort of breakthrough to show within the next few days. Now, if he’s jerking our chain, tell me and I’ll close them down. The President and the NSC want this neatly wrapped up and put away. If, however, they do pull off something spectacular, I’m putting resources in place in Boston to deal with that.”