Plot counterplot, p.23
Plot/Counterplot, page 23
“He bled on me!” Singer said to his partner, desperately trying to rub it off.
“You’ll live,” his colleague replied.
“How do you know? What if he’s HIV positive? What if he’s got COVID?”
“Then you’re screwed. But that’s unlikely. Let’s take him to the clinic.”
“I’m not touching him!” Singer replied.
Detwiler shook his head firmly. No way I’m getting involved.
The partner sighed. “I’ll call for medical backup.”
And inside the big head, Xavier smiled, because he knew he’d just bought his teammates another seven point four minutes.
* * *
The problem, Tolga recalled as he slithered, was that two security cameras patrolled the hallway leading to the scientist’s quarters, and a guard in a room in the back watched the monitors. Not all that carefully, given the slow response time last week when Felix had experimentally spiked the feedback with controlled electrostatic charges. But still. They couldn’t count on him being inattentive forever.
One option would be to take out the guard—but there was no way to do that without tipping the government to the fact that they’d been infiltrated. Turning off the power might work, but that would bring more people running to the building too quickly. Instead, he would reorient one of the cameras to allow Dylan andMikala to slink down the corridor. He could do it from here. Assuming he could get his arms free. And get the lid off the opening. And turn the camera. And do all that in...
“Four-point-one-five minutes,” Felix announced.
“You can round off, Spock,” Tolga muttered. “It’s not like I can look at my watch.”
Tolga knew only one possible way to make more room in an area that was already filled. He inhaled. And held his breath.
He managed to snap his right shoulder back into the socket. Hurt like hell. He pulled that working arm forward, an inch at a time, each agonizing. His hand pushed itself along, using the friction of his fingertips to gain purchase. In truth, he wasn’t sure how exactly he moved or what muscles he was flexing. He just did it.
The arm flopped onto the lid clutching the magnasonic screwdriver.
“Three minutes,” Felix said, as if somehow knowing the time might enable Tolga to work faster.
The miracle of this high-tech screwdriver was that it worked as well from the bolt end as it did from the head. Despite the fact that there was no elbow room and his elbow was in his face, Tolga managed to pop all four screws in fewer than thirty seconds. He used his fingers to catch the lid, then tilted it and brought it through the opening. He laid it gently on the surface of the shaft a few feet ahead of him.
Now where the hell was that camera?
He was stuck too tightly in the shaft. He had almost no room to maneuver. During the practice sessions, he’d known where the camera was supposed to be. But now he had no means of seeing it, much less reaching it.
He needed his other hand.
“The medical team has arrived,” Felix said. “You’ve got one minute, tops, beforeMikala and Dylan are spotted.”
Gritting his teeth, Tolga wrenched his left shoulder back into its socket.
Jesus God! His face contorted with pain. What the hell happened? He didn’t know what it was exactly, but something went wrong. Popped a blood vessel? Pulled a tendon? All he knew for certain was that he had never felt anything like that before, and he was glad, because it hurt so much he could barely think straight.
“Thirty seconds,” Felix barked. “Do you need me to round that off for you? The guard is walking up the damn sidewalk!”
Tolga closed his eyes and focused. He used his left hand to push himself toward the gap. His right hand still couldn’t reach the camera. He pushed even harder. No luck.
He felt as if his entire body had been stuck in a trash compactor set to maximum crush. There was simply no way he could pack more of himself into such a tiny space. He stretched his arm so far he was afraid he might inadvertently pop a bone out of joint.
He still couldn’t reach the camera.
“Ten freaking seconds till he arrives and your buddies are toast!” Felix said. “What are you waiting for?”
Tolga didn’t push with just his arm. He pushed with every muscle in every part of his body. He could not judge how close or far he was from the camera.
“Do it!” Felix shouted.
Tolga stretched like he had never stretched before, like the human body was never meant to stretch, not even his.
And then he felt it.
* * *
Dylan saw the guard making his way to the front door.
“Felix....this would be a good time to tell us to go in...”
“Not yet!”
He did his level best to keep his voice flat. “Felix, if he sees us, it’s all over.”
“If he sees you, it’s more than over. You’re caught and arrested.”
“But he’s almost here...”
The pause was in fact slightly more than two seconds, but it seemed an eternity.
“Feliiiiix?”
“Got it. The camera’s adjusted. Go!”
Chapter 48
2:22 p.m.
48 minutes left
Dylan opened the door and raced into the main corridor. He crossed the hallway,Mikala close behind him. As planned, the camera pointed away, to the opposite end of the symmetrical corridor. Unless he detected the movement, the guard wouldn’t know that he was now gazing at a different wall and that there was a foot and a half strip along the north wall that was not monitored. A strip currently traversed by two intruders.
The third door on the right was the one they wanted. A security card scanner with a ten-digit keypad was attached to the wall.Mikala opened her shoulder bag and withdrew what looked like a hand-held calculator connected by computer ribbon to a credit card. She slid the card inside the pocket and tapped buttons on the device.
“Here’s where we see if my decrypting is as good as the US government’s.”
“I have complete faith in you.”
“That won’t get you a—” She was interrupted by a soft pinging sound. The numbers on her calculator flashed red.
She smiled. “Can I cook, or can’t I?”
* * *
Dr. Louis Scheimer, Ph.D. in Physics, theoretical designer of the first large-scale proton Cyclotron and the world’s leading expert on neutrino oscillation, hated PFD. He also wasn’t keen on homecoming, Mom’s Day, or anything else that diverted the university from what it was supposed to be: an institution of higher learning and a locus for research. He had come to the United States after the fall of the Berlin Wall because he felt constricted in Dresden. He needed better equipment, more support, than he had ever been able to obtain in the Fatherland. And to be sure, the climate was sunnier in Hawaii and he wasn’t opposed to the occasional sunset walk by the beach. The price of obtaining this had been relatively small.
All he’d had to do was sell his soul.
All he’d gained was the opportunity to work with a natural phenomenon so extraordinary that even Nikola Tesla was astounded by its possibilities.
Had he made the right choice? Yes, it was a breakthrough that made the theory of relativity and the splitting of the atom seem like baby steps. He could not deny the excitement he felt with each new discovery, each breakthrough. But the military wasn’t interested in theory. They wanted a weapon. And when they tested that weapon—it proved more powerful than he had imagined.
His dream of using science to free mankind from poverty, energy shortage, environmental catastrophe, and daily drudgery—hadn’t happened. Unprecedented destructive power is what happened.
He was grateful that, in the aftermath of the test, the military agreed to suspend the project. Even they knew that, much as they longed to reshape the world order, they did not know enough to safely control this weapon. But the apparatus had not been dismantled. And the Kronos Key had not been destroyed.
Under duress, he’d agreed to create the Key, a device that could direct and target the lightning, in a manner of speaking. He had been curious to know if it was possible. And if he were totally honest, he wanted to challenge himself, to see if he was up to the task. To do something that had never been done before.
He had accomplished his goal. And regretted it every day since. He tried to live with what he’d done. But every day he found it more difficult. His work gave him no relief. Alcohol gave him no solace. His friends were gone, Karelis probably murdered. Agents asking questions. How long would it be before the truth was revealed and he was held in the contempt he deserved?
He heard steps in the hallway. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Detwiler hadn’t said anything about visitors. Neither did Joe. Probably Admiral Stewart, here to make his impotent demands, pretending he still controlled this project? He didn’t even understand this project.
He flung open the door and found a man with dark close cut hair, smiling. He held what looked like an asthma inhaler up to Scheimer’s face.
“Sweet dreams, Doctor.”
* * *
Dylan flung Scheimer’s limp body over his shoulder, fireman-style. Gravity was a serious issue with this physicist. Because he was seriously heavy. The product of a sedentary lifestyle.
“Grab the laptop.”Mikala was already there, trying to open the target files. Unfortunately, as their intelligence had suggested, the files were encrypted by the CIA’s latest system.Mikala couldn’t hack into it without the entry password—and even then, reading the files would require considerable decryption.
She folded up the laptop, then followed Dylan down the corridor and into the foyer. The parade was still in full force.
“We’re here, Felix. Send it in. Before someone spots us.”
The parade and revelry made it easier to sneak in—but more difficult to get the famed physicist to another location. The parade wasn’t going to part while they pulled up their minivan. Only one vehicle could possibly get through.
The ambulance pulled up to the front doors just as Dylan arrived. The ramp lowered and a gurney slid outward. Dylan gently but expediently lowered the scientist onto the flatbed. He didn’t want anyone to see who it was.
Detwiler left his station and approached Kalifa, the driver of the ambulance. “What’s going on?”
“Research assistant. Alcohol poisoning. We got a call.”
Detwiler nodded. “Not the old man.”
“I don’t know any old man. This guy’s about twenty.”
“Post-doc.” He shook his head. “Science nerds. Smart but stupid. Carry on.” He returned to his station.
As soon as the rear doors closed, Kalifa put his foot down on the accelerator. Dr. Giep took Scheimer’s arm and administered the first of the drugs, the sodium thiopental derivative. Next he would inject the hallucinogen. By the time Scheimer awoke at the redressed warehouse two blocks off campus, he would be confused, disoriented, and extremely susceptible to suggestion. And that was critical. Because to avoid triggering the CIA post-hypnotic suggestion, they had to interrogate this man—without him ever feeling he had been interrogated.
The siren blazed as they sped past Gilbert Hall. He hoped the Hollywood boys were ready. The show was about to begin.
Chapter 49
2:28 p.m.
42 minutes left
The instant they arrived, Dylan and Kalifa wheeled the scientist-laden gurney into the warehouse. They did not want to attract attention or to cause anyone to wonder why an ambulance stopped here.
They rode the elevator to the second floor.
Dylan pushed Scheimer into the room where the drama would unfold. Perfect. The Hollywood art- and set-design team had recreated the room in the photographs to the last detail. Most of the photos were black and white, but they’d used computer analysis to determine the original colors. If Dylan hadn’t known better, he would’ve thought he’d stepped back into the 1960s. Behind the Iron Curtain.
Mr. X was by the bed, in costume, attending to a few final details. “Felix has kept me informed. Any problems?”
“None we couldn’t handle.”
“No one suspects?”
“No.”
“What about the physicist?”
“Never knew what hit him.”
“Tolga?”
“Safe.”
“Good. We should be able to—” She paused, frowning. “What are you staring at?”
Dylan realized why Bakersfield had an Oscar on his mantle. Her surgery had been designed to reproduce the general contours of a particular face. But the makeup had made her the living incarnation of the woman she was about to impersonate. “Never did I imagine I would hear myself saying this but—you’re beautiful.”
Mr. X tucked her chin in. “Don’t let yourself be distracted. We have work to do.”
“But it’s true. I particularly like what he’s done with your hair.”
“Don’t bother turning your alleged charm on me. You’re not my type. You’re not going to get rogered just by flattering me.”
Dylan dropped it. But he also noticed that this time she did not resort to threats of physical harm.
Dylan sat Scheimer upright in a chair beside a large mirror. Giep and Bakersfield went to work, like a top-flight surgical team. Giep injected the scientist’s face with hypertox, a fast-acting but short-lived botox variant. The toxin paralyzed the nerves in Scheimer’s face, erasing frown lines, eye creases, and brow furrows. Bakersfield used a shampoo dye to color his hair. Then he applied makeup to add color and vitality to the man’s face, shading to eliminate liver spots and to reduce the visibility of sagging skin beneath the chin. Giep gave him a testosterone-based vitamin injection. He wouldn’t revive until they gave him the stimulant, but when he did, he would feel energized.
Young.
After the redressing was complete, the costumers stripped him and applied the final touches.
Dylan could only watch and marvel. Yes, he’d dreamed up this operation. But seeing it come to life was different. This was like watching one of his books being reenacted before his eyes.
* * *
Dr. Giep gave Scheimer the stimulant, then ducked out of sight. Once he was gone, nothing remained in the faux-bedroom that had not been there in 1968. Dylan andMikala watched from an adjoining alcove. The bedroom was wired for sound so they could hear everything, and they could watch through a two-way mirror.Mikala hacked away at Scheimer’s laptop, but she only became increasingly frustrated.
“I need his password,” she muttered, not for the first time.
“We’ll get it.”
“Once I have that, I can get inside and start decrypting. Without it, I can’t do anything. This computer has been designed to resist any attempt to input random sequences.”
“So we’ll get the password.”
“You seem very sure your plan will work.”
“Classic Skinner behaviorism. Provide the correct environmental stimuli and you will obtain predictable behavioral responses. How do you get someone to give you something they don’t want to give you? By altering the environment. In this case, we’re going to recreate the happiest time in Dr. Scheimer’s life. Where he feels free to say anything.”
“If he buys it.”
“He will believe it. Because he will want to believe it.”
Scheimer’s eyes opened. He blinked several times. Dylan could hear him whispering “Where am I?” even though his lips were not moving. He slowly rose, propping himself up with one arm.
When he saw the room, his eyes widened. He looked as if he had fallen through the rabbit hole—and in a sense, he had.
“How can this be?”
A soft pad of footsteps from the left turned his head. His entire body stiffened. “No.”
Mr. X emerged from the shadows. “Hello, Louie.” Her German was perfect.
“Liesel!”
She sat on the edge of his bed. “Of course, darling. Who else would it be? Are you feeling any better?”
“But—it isn’t possible. You can’t be here.”
She smiled slightly. Dylan could hardly believe the cruel woman who had tortured and threatened him could be so convincing in this loving, caregiving role. Her brain had to be a masterwork of compartmentalization. Her mimicry of the voice tapes was too close to be doubted—especially by a man currently under the influence of several mind-altering medications.
“Surely you didn’t think I would leave your side?”
“But my Liesel. This must be a dream.” He paused, his mind obviously in conflict with itself. “You’re dead.”
“I’m dead? You’re the one who has been sick these past weeks. Why would I die?”
“You had a cancer.” He tilted his head to the side. Anyone in his situation would be confused, and the drugs magnified the disorientation.
“You’ve had scarlet fever, darling,” Mr. X said. “It almost took you. Last night, we thought...well. The fever broke and here you are.”
This story had been carefully scripted. Scheimer had in fact suffered from scarlet fever when he was a young man and it had almost killed him. When he was twenty-four. And his wife was still living.
“But that was so long ago.”
“No, darling. You’re confused. That’s understandable. Lie back down.”
“But—”
She gently but insistently pushed him back to the bed. “Take a moment to gather your thoughts.”
Which would be impossible, with all the chemicals coursing through his head.
“But my Liesel.” Despite his difficulties, Dylan noticed Scheimer was squeezing her hand. “That was so long ago. When I was young.”
“You’re still young.”
“I’m not. I’m old. I remember—”
“You remember a dream. A fever dream.”
“No. There were years. Decades.”
Mr. X laughed a little, a high-pitched trill. “No, my darling. Just a terrible nightmare.” She picked up a hand mirror from the table by the bed. “Look at yourself, Louie. Is that the face of an old man?”
