Chapter 3

Washington, D.C. – May 27th, 1983 – 7:02 PM

Before the phone rang, Deputy Director Gordon Swan thought he was going home.

After it rang, he realized he was not. It was FBI Director, William Webster, who told him that he had a priority project, and that there would be two gentleman from the NSA over in an hour to discuss it with him. End of conversation. If you wanted any future career in the Bureau—or if, as in Gordon’s case, you just wanted to make it until retirement—you did not say no to the Director.

Gordon Swan sighed as he put the phone back in its cradle, and then picked it up again and called his wife to let her know that he wouldn’t be home until everybody else was in bed asleep. If then. Unsurprisingly, the news did not go over well.

Next, he punched the handsfree button on the phone. “Jack, I think it’s going to be a long night for me. You think you could run go get me a turkey sandwich—plenty of mustard—before you pack it up for the night?”

“Will do,” said Jack loudly, making the tiny speaker in the phone buzz with static. “Want I should get you some coffee?”

“That would probably be a good idea.”

Gordon took off his glasses and rubbed his temples. Another long night. What was it going to be this time? Getting his marching orders from the NSA or the DOD was generally guaranteed to be unpleasant. There would be long nights, travel, paperwork—oh, the paperwork. His agents couldn’t swat a fly without a warrant and it would take them a month to get one if Gordon didn’t walk it through every step of the way. Any investigation where anything was going to get done, there’d be dozens of warrants, and there was plenty of paperwork for every warrant and he’d end up keeping track of it. Others in the Bureau would dump all the grunt work on the agents who were supposed to be working the case. Which was why, in his opinion, it took forever for their cases to get resolved, if ever.

The problem with getting results over avoiding grunt work was that tough cases often got shunted to him. He closed his eyes and moved to rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I’ve got to start pushing all the damn paperwork on my agents,” he muttered to himself.

“Director Swan?” It was Jack, with a deli sandwich neatly wrapped in white paper and a cup of coffee—black with two sugars. Gordon found himself sorry Jack would be moving on at the end of the summer; he was a hell of a lot better than his previous full-time assistant. But, of course, Jack was young and ambitious and planning to move up in the Bureau. It was good to win the favor of the Deputy Directors if you were planning on being a career man.

“Thanks, Jack. Good man.”

“No problem, sir. You need anything else?”

“Nah. You go home. You’ll miss all the rest you're getting now when they make you a Deputy Director one day.” Gordon felt a tinge of jealousy as he said it, but smiled all the same.

“I can only hope, sir.” Jack turned and walked out the door, his footsteps vanishing quickly down the hallway. He was good. Did what he was asked to do, and didn’t overstay his welcome. He would move up, Gordon thought. Sort of reminded him of himself, when he was younger.

Gordon sighed, and thumbed through his in box. There was nothing that couldn’t wait—but, it wasn’t like he had something else to do, and there was normally no way of being sure when personnel was going to arrive to meet for “emergency” sessions. And people in the NSA, DOD and CIA were known to keep the FBI waiting.

He pulled out a marked and coded folder—a report on a recently resolved case that needed his stamp of approval. It was a thick, thick report. His agents had been working with both the IRS and the DEA in prosecuting a New Jersey drug kingpin. They had nailed the guy good, and the evidence for the case was plentiful. The DEA was going to handle the prosecution on drug trafficking and the IRS was going to handle the prosecution on income tax evasion so the Bureau, except for the agents being called as material witnesses, was done.

The report, however, was 250 pages of ass covering. And he had to read it all, to cover his ass. To be Jack, he thought. Young and ambitious and with something in life to look forward to. Because he hasn’t been around long enough to know better.

Seventy-five pages into the report, his phone rang. He pushed the handsfree button. “Yeah?”
“Howard Voss and Theresa McNaney here to see you, sir.”

Theresa? Swan thought. Director Webster had said to expect two gentlemen.
“Could you show them to conference room three and let them know I’ll be there in two minutes?”

“Yes, sir.”

Gordon hit the release button. He sighed, grabbed a legal pad, and made his way down the corridor to the conference room.

Chapter 8

Washington, DC – Saturday, May 28th, 1983 – 2:15 AM

That Theresa McNaney was a bitch on wheels.

Gordon Swan flipped through his legal pad. He had filled nearly twenty pages, constructing the time line, trying to structure the case for himself before he assigned any agents. But, damn. That woman could drive a man insane. He had had dozens of questions he needed to get answered and she had fought him like some venomous demon-harpy straight out of hell on almost all of them. Voss had done a good job of keeping things on track, though. He must’ve worked with McNaney before.

Swan looked at his timeline. Donald Bernhard had keeled over into his soup at the food court in the Four Points mall four days ago. State police had handled everything up until now, keeping the DOD in the loop through McNaney—Gordon bet that the boys in gray drew straws for that duty. But the scene, and the trail, was now four days old. Not to mention, it was 2:15 in the goddamn morning. They could have scheduled a meeting for 8:00 am Friday, or even Thursday. Instead of sitting on their asses until six in the evening, on a Friday, before he even got a call. Bureaucrats.

Gordon Swan sat in the conference room alone, rubbing his temples. What a crock of shit. Artifact of indeterminate origins, my ass. Maybe the Christmas Island story was all on the up and up, but absorbing all the radiation? And what about the crap about defense mechanisms? Then, the whole deal about not being able to specifically determine the material—some form of carbon-silicate they were speculating. But material tests were inconclusive. Bernhard had synthesized some sort of alien device with double-A batteries and rubber bands that he had killed himself with, after which, anything that would constitute actual corroborative evidence had disappeared. How convenient.

McNaney and Voss had told Gordon that the current hypothesis was that Bernhard had somehow taken the artifact nearly a year ago, and had substituted a copy, likely—say it with me, everybody—synthesized using technology acquired from the original artifact. He must have heard some variation on that phrase thirty times during the conference. It was the explanation for everything that had no explanation. Well, no explanation except that all these people were out of their fucking minds and this whole thing was a load of horseshit. Eliminating that hypothesis, the only thing left to fill in all the gaps were things synthesized using technology acquired from the original artifact. It was the answer for everything.

Gordon sighed, thumbing absently through the materials in the file jacket. McNaney’s repeated protestations that there had been no determination regarding the origins of the artifact to the contrary, there obviously had been. Somebody somewhere, and probably more than one of them, thought they had a piece of a flying saucer. Some sort of microscopic Martian Rosetta stone. Someone with some clout. They had already burned God only knew how many taxpayer dollars monopolizing Oak Ridge so Dr. Donald Bernhard could, in most likelihood, yank their chain for three years. Consumed the time and resources of who knew how many people at the DOD and NSA. Now, they were going to start burning through grampa’s Social Security at the FBI, looking for little green men.

Gordon reached into his breast pocket and pulled out an Alka-Seltzer. He had some deadly indigestion. He popped the two Alka-Seltzer tablets into his water—the ice had mostly melted, having been brought in an hour before while the conference with Voss and McNaney had still been in full swing. Still, it was cold, and with the Alka-Seltzer fizzing away, it tasted good.

While there might be something to investigate here—fraud and abuse, just to name two things off the top of his head—the likelihood of the case brought to him by McNaney and Voss even remotely resembling reality seemed, to Gordon Swan, extremely slight. But the strings here were being pulled from way above Gordon’s box on the organizational chart. All he could do was do his job, as quickly and discretely as possible.

Gordon flipped forward a few pages in the pad. Towards the end, he had pressed Voss and McNaney on who they were taking marching orders from. They had all the wheres and whos and hows from the frontline—everyone on Dr. Bernhard’s team, the team that had originally noted the artifact, the people who had processed it, the oversight committee and the military and civilian personnel that had handled the Christmas Island investigation. But not who signed off on this project virtually taking over the Oak Ridge lab. No word on who made the call on the “artifact” in the first place.

Often, research was done in the forms of grants with oversight based on petition from civilians–usually contractors hoping for fat government contracts and, by the way, could Joe Taxpayer also pick up all the research and development costs, too?–or from military men looking for advantage or career opportunities or politicians looking for pork. No petitions here. Dr. Bernhard had not read about the artifact in a journal and then put together a grant proposal. He had been tapped, as had Oak Ridge and the rest of Bernhard’s team. Just as Voss and McNaney had been and just as the FBI now was getting the good news that it had volunteered.
So someone else was calling the shots. Maybe the guy that McNaney blew for her current spot in the Department of Defense’s organization chart. Or someone above that.

There were a lot of nuts in the world, and some of them in very high places. Swan had heard that J. Edgar Hoover had worn women’s underwear, and that that might have been one of the more normal things about him. True or not, it certainly could have been. Howard Hughes, America’s first billionaire and at one time the world’s richest man, had spent the last years of his life terrified of germs, shuffling around with Kleenex boxes on his feet, unwilling to cut his hair or his fingernails. Among other things, Howard Hughes’ autopsy had revealed that his body had been riddled with broken off hypodermic needles. Many of them had been in him for years. And Hughes had been a very powerful and influential man, as well as incredibly rich, in many ways that didn’t come to light until after his death, and in some ways that probably hadn’t come to light yet.

Not nearly so impressive, Swan’s immediate supervisor when had been in the field—Deputy Director Geoffery Ramis—had been convinced that people spontaneously combusted. That it had happened to his brother, a CIA field agent that had disappeared in Venezuela. Ramis was convinced that it had happened in five different cases he had investigated in his career, and that it was the explanation for multiple disappearances and unexplained fires or arson. Ramis—who had gone on to a senior position in the State Department—had had an unshakeable conviction that people would sometimes just blow up. They would catch fire on the inside, and rapidly burn away at a temperature high enough to turn bone to ash. Sometimes causing building, car, or brush fires, but usually without so much as scorching the bed they were laying in or the floor they were standing on. On occasion, Ramis had intimated that he knew something more sinister about the origins of these spontaneous combustions, but had never been specific.

Swan, who had always beend dismayed when his normally clear-headed, fact-checking, i-dotting and t-crossing superior began to expound on the reality of spontaneous combustion, had never tried to extract from him exactly what his theories had been. After enough conversations on the issue, where Swan had simply remained neutral to gauge how serious Ramis had been, it had become clear that Ramis was extremely serious and not only believed in it—it was important to him. Important enough that if logic might contradict the conclusions, then logic was simply wrong. By the time Swan had switched departments, he had learned that it was religion to Ramis; to question the factuality of something that, in truth, didn’t have one single shred of definitive, empirical evidence was, to Ramis, sacrilege. Not only sacrilege, it was evidence of the questioner’s incurable stupidity.

And Ramis had moved up in the world, not down. It was scary to think of the strange, wrong, and even terrible ideas people had—people in positions of power, people with resources, people who could not only act on their ideas but make others act on them as well. The huge waste of taxpayer money, from the government-funded research on the “artifact” to the government-funded hide-and-seek mission now to whatever government-funded research that would happen if they ever found the useless thing, was, in the end, fairly harmless. Just a little more government pork, and not that big a piece at that. The people who were making it happen, the people who were pulling the strings—his strings, Voss and McNaney’s strings, maybe even Director Webster’s strings—those people were not fairly harmless. They might end up self-destructing, sure. Usually they did. But not always.

Gordon slapped the legal pad on the table. He picked up the file jacket and stuck it on top of the pad, preparing to take the bundle back to his office, drop it in the file drawer of his desk and lock it tight. Standard procedure, but he was more worried about this sort of material getting out than most regular cases. Leaks about legitimate investigations would most likely not damage his career and leave the Bureau looking insular and stupid. Leaks about little green men, on the other hand, might play well with the Area 51 crowd. But not with John Q. Public. And certainly not with congressional oversight committees.

He stood up, stretched, picked up his pad and file jacket—half-empty cups of coffee and water he’d leave for the early morning pick-up crew—and headed for the hall, putting the case together in his mind. Putting it together on paper could wait until morning.

He hated to do it, but he decided to put the best available agents on the job. He would need high efficiency and total discretion. It could not get out—get out to anyone—that the FBI was look for some sort of alien artifact. The FBI fought crime and did paperwork–and three guesses which it did more of–but it did not go looking for E.T. the Extra Terrestrial throughout the malls and multiplexes of suburban America. This case could not get leaked. Not to the press, of course, but not to other agencies, either. Not to other agents in the FBI. Not to other directors, aside from Director Webster’s discretion, over which Swan would have no say. But he hoped and suspected Director Webster was as skeptical of this foolishness, and as anxious to keep it in low profile, as Swan was. Which might be, he supposed, why Webster stuck the duty on him. There were, Swan knew, less cynical deputy directors in the FBI than himself.

Also, the Bureau was not short of deputy directors who would not do well with a bitch on wheels like McNaney.

Bitch on wheels. It wasn’t a phrase that Swan really used, though he’d heard it used more than once around the office. He couldn’t help but notice, however, that it was starting to come up in his head every time he thought of McNaney. Hopefully, he could spend more of his time dealing with Voss. Maybe submit written reports to McNaney and be out if the office when she called to bitch at him.

So, who to put on the case? Greg Willet was on a child abduction assignment—little redhead girl, kidnapped right in front of her school, with at least two creeps involved, demanding a ransom that was more money than her parents had access to. He would have been Swan’s first choice; there was none better in the Bureau than Greg Willet. But kidnapped little redheaded, freckled-face girls were a lot more important than political maneuvering or personal butt-covering to this father of three. His youngest was eight, same age as girl that Greg Willet was busy trying to bring home, alive and in one piece, to her desperate parents. The world was better served with Greg right where he was.

Frank Andrews, had just come off a case and was busy plowing the paper work. He was good. Not Greg Willet, but good, and Swan knew he was discrete. Discretion was what this particular case demanded most, ahead of speedy resolution. Vic VanCleef was available, too. He was a big lug, and suitably threatening—when all 6’4”, 250 lbs of agent VanCleef showed up, in a fresh brown suit and tie against a crisp white shirt with his FBI badge and ID held up high, knees got wobbly and people talked. People cooperated. VanCleef could also make sure that people kept quiet. He looked a little like Moose from the old Archie comics, but VanCleef had a mind as sharp as a razor and he heard and saw everything. He was great on the interview, and he was great at making not-so-bright people think he was dumb and they were clever. More than one case had cracked while Vic VanCleef just stood, watched, and listened. And he could turn them off the same way he could turn them on; not only was he discrete, if he wanted, he could make sure that everybody else was discrete, too. VanCleef was definitely on it.

He flipped through the other agents he knew would be turning in paper soon, without a locked-down assignment. Janet Brewer, maybe. She had shown promise. Actually, she was quite good, but Swan didn’t know her well enough, he decided. Off the list. Maybe Lydia Chelsea? Her, he knew. She was dependable, she didn’t rock the boat. That would make three agents, which he thought would be fine, at least at the start. There was more he needed to learn before any more agents could do any good.

He was still debating about Lydia as he arrived in his office and put the file jacket and legal pad away. He grabbed absently at his pocket and realized he had left his pencil. Well, not a big thing. He locked the drawer with the files, and tabled any more thought about this case until tomorrow. He’d decide if Lydia was going to round out the threesome then. Until then, no more thinking about the case until he showed up in the office Monday morning.

Well, he did allow himself one thought. He thought that he’d probably heard the last from FBI Director Webster on this, and that from now on he’d be dealing mostly with McNaney and Voss. If Webster called and said “Jump!”, Gordon Swan would ask, “How high?” If Voss or McNaney called and said, “You have to miss dinner with your wife and kids again because we’re career political flaks that think somebody elected us Ronald Reagan and we’ve got you on a leash,” he was going to tell them to go fuck themselves.

There, the last thought. He closed the door, turned off the light, and went home to his sleeping house.

Chapter 15

Baltimore, MD – Saturday, May 28th, 1983 – 4:33 PM

“Thanks, Helen.” Gordon Swan smiled at his wife, taking the glass of tea.

“You’re quite welcome, dear,” Helen replied. She sat down beside him, looking out the porch window as Emily, their youngest, swung on the swing set Gordon had built himself eighteen years ago, when their oldest had just turned three. Gordon liked to keep work at work and home at home, but he had a tough time watching Emily without thinking of Trisha Potemkin, the little red-headed girl that Greg Willet was busy trying to bring home alive. He hadn’t talked to the Potemkins but he had talked to plenty of parents whose kids turned up missing, kidnapped or killed. There was a reason the fence behind that old swing-set was so high, and there was a reason why there was a perimeter alarm. Why he never let his kids out of his sight when they were home, or if he was out at the mall or at a restaurant with them. It had been that way with each child. Gordon had kept a sharp eye and a short leash on them until they were well beyond old enough to take care of themselves—and well-schooled in martial arts and self-defense. Gordon Swan had seen too much of the dark side of human nature, and talked to too many parents who ended up burying their children, to take the safety of his family lightly.

Out front, Jacque started barking—the oldest and still one of the most effective form of perimeter alarms known to man.

“Mail’s here,” Helen said. “And I just sat down.” She stood back up. “Always something, always something.”

“Oh, hang on there, I’ll go get the mail, you sit down—” Gordon started.
“Too late, I’m up already, you just keep an eye on Emily and make sure she doesn’t hurt herself.” With that, Helen disappeared back into the house.

A minute later she reappeared. “Another package for Jamie,” Helen commented. “I wish you’d get your brother to stop sending him that garbage. He doesn’t need any more fake vomit or dog-doo or dribble glasses—”

“I’ll talk to him again. Ben can be a little mule-headed. Anything else?”

“Pig-headed, is more like it,” Helen retorted, sitting down. “Bills and junk mail, mostly. A letter from my cousin Sarah.” She thumbed through the mail. “And there’s this,” she continued, putting a plain white envelope on the table between them. She continued to studiously flip through the mail, but Gordon recognized the tone. Helen knew what he did for a living, and that no matter how careful they were, sometimes work overlapped with home. Most of the time, when Helen found something in the mail suspicious, it was nothing. But not always. Sometimes there were threats. Sometimes there were long, taunting letters. Sometimes there were pictures.

Gordon picked up the envelope, and saw what had gotten Helen’s hackles up straight away. No return address. Gordon’s name and address was written in neat blue block letters—the kind it was often very difficult to match to any one person. Gordon’s mouth didn’t go dry until, noting the lack of return address, he instinctively looked at the postmark.

It had been mailed from Los Angeles on Monday, May 24th. The day Dr. Donald Bernhard had ended up dead at the food court of the Four Points Mall.

“Did you get the letter opener, sweetheart?” he asked—Helen normally did grab the letter opener off the bureau, when she went to get the mail. Saying nothing, she handed it to him. He held the letter up to the light and could clearly see it contained nothing but one folded sheet of paper.

It couldn’t be, he thought. There’s no way. Gingerly, he worked the letter opener into the corner of the envelope and carefully slit the top. Using the tip of the letter opener, he pushed the envelope open. He didn’t think there was anything in there but the paper, but it paid to be cautious. He turned the envelope over, making sure there was nothing else to see—the only thing he noticed was Helen watching him out of the corner of her eye. Satisfied there was nothing immediately dangerous about the letter itself, he reached in and pulled the single sheet of paper out.

Pushing his glasses up his nose, he unfolded the letter, and read it.

Mr. Swan,

I hope you are impressed. Statistical analysis. Simple predictive models allowed me to know that there was a 98% probability you’d be working on this case before you even knew there would be a case. Although there is a 99.5% chance I am no longer among the living, I think you’ll find I’ll be three steps ahead of you, no matter what you try.

You have a .02% chance of locating the artifact. I know that you will try anyway, but I thought you should know that your odds aren’t good.

I felt the artifact best belonged in the hands of those who would do the most good with it. I’m afraid, as I’ve grown older, I’ve come to understand that that was not the American military. I realized that responsiblity for the artifact could not be given to any part of the American government. I knew it belonged not in the hands of those who would use it to oppress the people, but in the hands of the people that would be oppressed. I knew something like the artifact didn’t belong to any one person or nation, but to everybody—and the importance of the good it could do outweighed any foolish military advantage it might temporarily grant an imperial aggressor such as America. The possibilities in health and medicine alone are staggering.

The American military industrial complex cannot be trusted with such potential.

I trust you understand.

Sincerely,

Dr. Donald Hermann Bernhard, PhD.

Gordon sat for a moment and then read the letter again, brow furrowed. You’re not at work, he thought to himself. Just put it in your briefcase and wait until Monday.

Easier said than done.

Helen, not looking up from an engrossing piece of junk mail, asked, “Work?”

“Yes, work,” Gordon answered, irritated. Not at Helen, but his job, and how hard it was to leave it at the office sometimes. Hard enough to do it in his head; harder still to make his job leave him alone when he was at home. The outside world did not cooperate.

So he sat, glancing over the letter again. While he himself had suggested to Voss and McNaney that there might be a political element—either ideologically or financially motivated—to Bernhard’s action, this was a red herring. Maybe really from Bernhard, or maybe not. Perhaps the sentiment was real, and perhaps not. But the letter was a red herring. Meant to misdirect him, and use up both time and resources. Swan knew it—the letter might as well have said so.

Real political manifestos were usually long and rambling. He had dealt with enough high-minded ideologues who had felt their political awareness elevated them above the law. When those people wrote letters or left messages, they were manifestos, rarely under ten pages and frequently topping fifty. Especially if they were going to send it to somebody in authority. Where it might find its way to the press.

So either Bernhard wasn’t dead and was trying to mislead him—he considered this an extremely remote possibility—or Bernhard was dead and had planned the letter aforethought to misdirect the investigation. Or this letter wasn’t from Bernhard.

In all three cases, the end result was the same: to misdirect, to throw a wrench in the gears. And it would throw a wrench in the gears. Though brief, the letter was essentially a confession of treason. The first stage of investigation would have to conform to the assumption that Bernhard had been politically motivated. Swan would get his ass handed to him otherwise. A fact of which the letter writer was no doubt well aware. The thing was, if Bernhard had not been politically motivated—if this had all been a big game to him, or if this wasn’t from Bernhard at all—pursuing the political connections could lead Swan and his agents seriously far afield. Yet, given the overall brevity of the letter and the generic quality of the political sentiments expressed, what other purpose could the author have intended it to serve? No other purpose, Swan thought. This is misdirection. A decoy. Maybe Bernhard letting the world know how much smarter than he is that then rest of us. Maybe Bernhard or somebody else.

Gordon folded the letter. The envelope was postmarked for Monday, and it was now Saturday. Slow delivery for a regular letter. If had been sent on the day it was postmarked, it should have gotten to him on Wednesday or Thursday at the latest, not Saturday. Could just be a coincidence, of course, but it could also be a good indication that the letter had been sent by somebody else after Bernhard’s death. The content of the letter seemed to almost excessively affirm—even using the same language—Voss and McNaney’s assertions about the “artifact of undetermined origins”. And would he put it past McNaney to set something like this up? While she hardly seemed that thoughtful and deliberate, it seemed entirely plausible to him that she would have no qualms about engaging in such manipulation.

The first paragraph implied that the author used either incredible intelligence, or perhaps mysterious alien technology, to know ahead of time that Swan would be getting the case, and maybe even to determine his home address. Swan wasn’t buying it. Perhaps Bernhard was a super-genius or a disturbed savant, orchestrating what amounted to an elaborate hoax as some sort of final tribute to himself, to how much smarter he was than everybody he had worked with and worked for. Or perhaps this letter wasn’t from Bernhard. Perhaps Bernhard hadn’t stolen anything. Perhaps Bernhard had not been responsible for his own death, and someone in a position to know ahead of time had composed this letter and signed Bernhard’s name. Or perhaps someone else had reason to misdirect any investigation, and had backdated a letter and mixed it in with Swan’s mail for the sole purpose of sewing confusion. Not exactly easy things to do, but there were a lot of people in the intelligence community who could forge postmarks and signatures and get the letter into the correct bin at the post office. And it was certainly more credible than the idea that the letter implied: that Bernhard, using some mysterious artifact, managed to make himself a crystal ball so he could see the future.

Gordon grunted and stood up. Twirling in her swing, Emily looked up, to see if the grunt had been meant for her—to be followed up with an admonition to be more careful or come in and wash up before dinner. Apparently satisfied it was not, she returned to twisting her swing up as far as she could, and then letting it twirl her rapidly around.

“Dear?” Helen asked, her tone neutral but familiar enough to Gordon. It said, you didn’t get home until four in the morning and you missed a good chicken dinner. You better not be about to tell me something just came up and you need to go the office. Not even a phone call.

And Gordon agreed. “It’s work. I’m just going to go put the letter in my briefcase. Then it’s probably about time for everybody to start getting cleaned up for dinner.”

Helen looked up from the mail, frowning. “I just sat down,” she said. “You can get the meatloaf out and start warming it up. You know how to open a can of green beans and make instant potatoes. You can get the kids cleaned up. I’ve been on my feet all afternoon. I’m sitting my big butt down for half-an-hour.”

“Fair enough,” Gordon said, and smiled. Some days, he thought, shaking the letter in his hand, heading to his briefcase. Some days, retirement just can’t come too soon.

He put the letter away. No matter what else was going on—and there was something more to this case than met the eye—it was going to wait until Monday at 7:00 AM.

At least, that was what he thought.

Chapter 24

Baltimore, MD – Sunday, May 29th, 1983 – 6:25 AM

Gordon Swan knew the ringing phone—at his house, at 6:30 in the morning—did not mean good things. So did his wife, who said simply, “I hate your job.”

“Four years until I can retire,” Gordon said. “Just four.”

“I still hate your job.”

Gordon picked up the phone. “This better be important.”

It was Theresa McNaney. “I need to meet you in your office in an hour.”

Gordon felt his jaw tighten. “I need to meet you in your office in an hour,” she repeated.

“That’s not happening,” Gordon replied. “I’ll be in at 7:30 on Monday. We can meet at 7:45 or 10:00. But I’m not meeting with you today.”

“Deputy Director Swan, I was assured we would have your full cooperation and engagement—”

“7:45 AM or 10:00 AM Monday. Don’t call me at home again.” Gordon hung up the phone.

“Wrong number,” he said, settling back down into the bed.

“Hmph.”

“I know, I know—you hate my job. You and me both.”

“They’ll call back.”

“If they do, I’m going to tell them the same thing.”

“Hmph.”

The phone did ring again, about five minutes later. Gordon felt his heart sink. This wasn’t McNaney. This wasn’t Voss. One of them had just put in the call that had chain-reacted into this one. He knew it. He would, he thought, be going into the office on a Sunday after all.
He picked up the phone. “Swan,” he said.

“Gordon.” It was Bill Webster. Director of the FBI. The big boss. Oh, yeah, he was going to work. “I need you to cooperate with Theresa McNaney.”

Still, he had to try. “Sir, I don’t even have my agents assigned yet—”

“Then you call them at home or at their hotels or wherever they are and you bring them in and assign them. If they wanted to spend all their weekends lounging by the pool, they picked the wrong career.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I do not want to hear from Ms. McNaney again. I want this resolved. You understand you need to be circumspect.”

“Yes, sir. I do.”

“Part of being circumspect includes not antagonizing McNaney. You understand?”

“Understood.”

“I’ve assured her you will meet her, at your office, in an hour. And you will. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want this wrapped up and out of the Bureau quietly. I know you’ll get the right agents. I need you not to antagonize the NSA or the DOD so that they start taking their problems with the Bureau elsewhere. Theresa McNaney is not shy about causing trouble. I don’t want her to cause us any trouble.”

“Understood.”

“Good. Don’t let me hear from her again.”

“Yes, sir.” There was a click. Director Webster had hung up the phone. Gordon slowly put the phone back down in its cradle. “Shit,” he murmured.

“Hmph,” Helen said. “You’re going to the office, aren’t you.” It was a statement.

“That was William Webster. Calling me at home.”

“So you’re going to the office.”

“Yes, I’m going to the office. If William Webster is calling me at home on a Sunday, yes, I am sure as shit going to the office. I don’t want to, no, but I am going to go. And Theresa McNaney is going to feel my pain.”

“Good for her,” Helen replied. “I don’t know who she is. I don’t care. I do know you need to be home with your family on Sunday.”

“Four more years,” Gordon said. “Just four.”

“That’s too long,” Helen said, and turned over, pulling the sheets up around her. “Go. Go and get back.”

Gordon grunted, getting out of bed. He headed toward the bathroom. Oh, yes, indeed, Theresa McNaney—and anybody with her—was going to feel his pain. If this had been about something important—and sometimes it was—he wouldn’t have minded so much. But this wasn’t important—it was just stupid. The only thing remotely important about it was keeping the whole thing as quiet as possible. Bill Webster might as well have said it directly: don’t you dare let anybody find out were devoting time and money to something so godawful stupid, Gordon. Don’t you dare.

He knew that was going to be easier said than done. He knew the agents to assign, and he knew how to keep the paperwork at headquarters safely ambiguous, and Voss obviously wouldn’t be a problem. McNaney, though—she was loud and she was a bully, and she didn’t care who knew it.

He could just see her in the halls of power, yelling into the phone about the FBI and little green men as a pack of gray-suited fellows wrote feverishly in their notebooks, fellows with the word “PRESS” written in large black letters on a white card stuck in the band of their fedoras. He could also see himself opening the Sunday paper, reading the fat, black headlines in two-inch letters: Rogue Deputy Director, Gordon Swan, Responsible for Huge Waste of Tax Payer Dollars, Says a Concerned William Webster. Despite her concern over whether or not a central conference room in the middle of FBI headquarters was secure, Swan didn’t think McNaney was very discrete, when it came down to it. The temperamental types usually weren’t. They were always too pissed off to worry about discretion. About who might overhear them when they were yelling at the top of their lungs at somebody else.

Gordon sighed, getting into the shower. Whatever grim satisfaction there was in the idea of putting McNaney in her place was not enough to make up for the rest of the day, which looked to be long and unpleasant. Both at work and at home.

Just four more years, he thought, turning on the hot water. Just four more years.

He showered quickly and got dressed. Helen was still in bed. When he kissed her head softly, she grunted. “Go,” she said. “Go now and get back. Don’t stay there all day.”

“I’m not planning on it,” Gordon said, opening the bedroom door.

“That means you’ll be gone all day,” Helen said, turning over so she was facing away from the door. Away from Gordon. “Go on. The longer you stand there like a damn fool, the longer before you get back. Go.”

“Be back soon,” Gordon said—not so entirely sure himself that would actually be the case—and stepped out into the hall. He poked his head into Emily’s room. She was still asleep. He kissed her on her forehead, hating his job again. Absolutely despising it. Wishing he had gone into retail sales, or perhaps sanitation, instead. Then, he listened at Jeff’s door—he could hear him playing some sort of video game on his Atari and decided just to go ahead and leave—he didn’t want to have to explain to Jeff that he had to leave. Or have to make promises about when he’d be back.

He picked up his briefcase, after making sure it still had the letter—the one supposedly from Dr. Bernhard—and grabbed a cold drumstick out of the Kentucky Fried Chicken bucket at the bottom of the refrigerator. He took a bite; it was cold and greasy. Now, that was a Sunday morning breakfast. He took a minute to start coffee for when Helen got up, which she probably would the minute he pulled out of the driveway. She was just staying in bed to make a point. Then, he went out, softly closing the door and locking it—knob lock and deadbolt—and climbed into his car.

“Four years,” he said, as he started the engine. “Just four more years.”

Chapter 27

Washington, DC – Sunday, May 29th, 1983 – 9:54 AM

Gordon flashed his badge at the first security guard inside the door, then again to the one behind the desk. “Mr. Swan,” the man behind the desk said—Gordon had seen him several times, but still didn’t know his name. “Jack asked me to let him know as soon as you got here, so he could come down and meet you.”

“Jack? Who called Jack in?” Gordon asked, anger flaring again. Who had had the nerve to make sure his personal assistant got called in? On a Sunday? When Gordon hadn’t requested it?

At the same time, he appreciated Jack’s presence, and a quick meeting with Jack before Gordon went up would be good. No doubt, Jack wanted to warn Gordon of the ambush he was already was expecting. And going to prepare for.

Theresa McNaney was going to feel his pain. And she was going to learn not to try to go above him, or pull his strings. Not like the stunt she had pulled this morning.

As soon as the security guard had put down the phone, Gordon asked his name. “Tom Michaels, sir,” the guard replied. “Jack said he was coming straight down.”

“Great. I need two security guards. Anybody you can spare?”

“Yes, sir. Do you want me to call them up here?”

“Right away, Tom. Thanks.”

Jack arrived first. He nodded curtly at Gordon. “Theresa McNaney and Harold Voss are up there. They have two other flacks with them. Deputy Director Simmons and Deputy Director Curtis are up there was well.”

“Thanks, Tom, for the heads up. Do you know what Deputy Director Simmons and Deputy Director Curtis are doing here?”

“It’s my understanding that they both got letters—both them and Deputy Director Banning—ostensibly from a Donald Hermann Bernhard. Banning couldn’t come in but had one of couriers bring the letter in—pertaining to the case you were discussing with Theresa McNaney and Howard Voss on Friday.”

Gordon pushed his glassed up his nose, looking straight at Jack. “No shit?”

“No shit, sir. They expect you got one, too.”

“Nice of someone to tell me.”

“Sir?”

“Jack, I need to get Theresa McNaney on board. She’s a bully and she’s got a hell of a mouth. If I have to work with her, and apparently I do, I need her taken down a peg.”

Jack nodded. “Sir, she needs to be taken down several pegs.”

Gordon smiled. “Good man. And here’s our first pass, now,” he said, nodding towards the two security guards who were moving briskly down the hall to the front desk. “I’m going to have McNaney kept out of the conference. Whatever it is, and whoever else is there, I’m having her ejected for the entire meeting. We can put her down in detention, if we need to. It’ll probably piss some people off, but if I’m not having my strings pulled by some hyperbolic bitch for the next four weeks or four months or however long this case takes. And I don’t care who she knows.”

Jack nodded. “You’ve got my full support, sir.”

“—whatever he needs,” Tom Michaels was telling the other two security guards. “Be prepared for a situation. I think he’s going to throw that woman from the DOD in lock-up. You know the one, Charlie,” he said, nodding at the bigger guard.

Charlie cracked his knuckles. “It’ll be my pleasure,” he said, smiling. “Sir.”

Gordon at Jack both looked at Tom, eyebrows arched. “You guys know McNaney?”

“She dressed Charlie down on Saturday. Charlie was doing desk. She wanted in yesterday and didn’t have clearance with anybody. She didn’t understand why she couldn’t just come in and walk around anywhere she wanted.” Tom paused thoughtfully. “I’m surprised she didn’t bite him.”

Charlie smiled. “I think she tried. Twice. Don’t worry, I can handle her. I just don’t make the decision, Mr. Swan, you do.”

Gordon nodded. “I’m going to. Come on, let’s go up.” They headed for the elevators.

“Based on her behavior, I consider McNaney a threat to this investigation. She is a loose cannon and clearly does not guard what she says. As such, at such a sensitive juncture in this case, involving such a diverse group of individuals, as director of this investigation I have an obligation to protect my agents, the interests of the other directors that have been involved, and the confidentiality of the case.”

Jack, Charlie, and the other security guard nodded in agreement. “Good. Just so we’re all the same page. If she’s cooperative, she can remain outside until we’re done. If she’s uncooperative, you may take her downstairs, at your discretion.”

“Yes, sir,” Charlie said, nodding. “My discretion.”

As the elevator arrived and the doors opened, Gordon could already hear her yelling at somebody. She was a loud woman. A shrill woman. He was going to keep her involvement to a minimum, whether she liked it or not.

“—I’ve been here for three hours,” she was saying. “I had to wait for 45 minutes for anyone to even show up. I don’t know how you do things over here—it doesn’t look to me like you do much at all—when there is a critical case and pertinent information has been received and you wait until that evening—” She was looking at Deputy Director Simmons pointedly, who simply looked blankly back at her. “—wait until you were done golfing or puttering in the yard before you even alert anybody. I was working all day yesterday, from 7:00 AM until almost midnight—”

“So I’ve heard,” Gordon interjected, approaching the conflagration in the middle of the hall, in front of the same conference room Swan had used to discuss all this garbage with Voss and McNaney on Friday. “What were you doing here, trying to get past security? With no one to see?”

McNaney turned on her heels, face red and nostrils flaring. “I was trying to get in to see Deputy Director Curtis,” she said, cutting her eyes over to him. “I had been assured he would be in, letter in hand—”

“Who assured you?”

McNaney’s eyes narrowed. “I was assured,” she said.

Gordon blinked, eyebrows arched inquisitively. “I got that. By whom?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that,” McNaney said, glaring at Swan. “I was assured.”

“By someone you won’t identify, for the purposes of waltzing around FBI headquarters to find Deputy Director Curtis—was he expecting you?” he asked, cutting his eyes over to Bob Curtis. “Was there a meeting scheduled?”

Bob Curtis shook his head, just slightly. “This is the first I’ve heard of it. I didn’t get word to come in until last night, around ten. The word was for this morning.”

“You weren’t expected to meet Ms. McNaney?”

“I was not, to my knowledge.”

“Yet Ms. McNaney was here, trying to get into the building, by saying she had a meeting scheduled with you—”

Theresa McNaney’s eyes were thin black slits. Gordon could see her jaw muscles working, her teeth grinding back and forth, back and forth. “I was assured—”

Gordon turned and looked directly at her. “By whom, Ms. McNaney? By whom?”

She clenched her teeth, jaw jutting out, glaring defiantly at Swan. “I am not at liberty to say.”

Gordon nodded. “Which is the same as saying ‘nobody’. Which is the same as saying you came over here and were trying to get into FBI headquarters, on false pretenses, for some reason pertaining to this case that you will not divulge, and your explanations so far have been unverifiable.”

McNaney’s eyes were growing wider. She seemed to have just noticed the two security guards flanking Gordon Swan and Jack Harris. “You wouldn’t dare—” she started.

“You represent a security risk. There is going to be a meeting this morning, just as you insisted. I’m afraid, however, I can’t allow you to participate.”

“Howard!” she yelled. “Would you please explain to these people what they are doing—”

Howard Voss leaned forward and whispered into Theresa McNaney’s ear. She apparently didn’t like what she heard, because her eyes grew wider still. “What? What?”

“Ms. McNaney,” Gordon continued. “You may wait outside the conference room, or, if necessary, be escorted—”

She whipped around, her whole body shaking. Good God, it was amazing she just didn’t have a stroke and drop dead right there. “We will see about this,” she hissed, her voice trembling. “All it’s going to take is one phone call—”

“She is a security risk,” Swan said, nodding to Charlie. “Make sure that she doesn’t use or get near a phone while she’s here.”

She opened her mouth, lower lip trembling. She looked like she was trying to say something, but all that came out were dry clicks. “Swan,” she managed after a moment. “You—you’re going to be very sorry—”

Gordon looked straight at McNaney, head down, peering over his glasses. “You try any more stunts like this morning or yesterday and you’re going to have a whole lot more to worry about than Charlie.” He nodded his head at the large black man standing at McNaney’s side. Charlie smiled broadly. “You could be worried about a Federal prosecution. You could be worried about losing your job. Everybody knows somebody in this business. Most of us are smart enough not to pull every string we’ve got, all the time, because something isn’t going just the way we want it to.”

Theresa McNaney was trembling, blinking rapidly, her left eye twitching. “You—you—this is my—”

Gordon nodded at Voss. “I’m sure Mr. Voss will keep you and your superiors adequately appraised, at his discretion. I consider you a security risk. Given your behavior up to this point, I cannot, in good conscious, let you in to this meeting.”

McNaney looked desperately at Voss, then at Deputy Directors Simmons and Curtis, who looked back at her steadily, without a word. Her shoulders slumped, just slightly. “You’re all going to be sorry for this.”

Gordon frowned. “How are we going to be sorry, all of us, Ms. McNaney? What, exactly, are you planning on doing?”

Flushed up to her scalp—her ears looked like little cherry tomatoes—McNaney just glared at Gordon. “I’m waiting,” he said. “Why are we all going to be sorry?”

“No answer. All right, I’ll assume you misspoke. Ms. McNaney, discretion is extremely important in a case such as this.” Gordon took a step towards her. She shrank back, just a tiny bit. Enough to make Gordon think that maybe, finally, he was getting through. “You have not been discrete. I, and my superiors, are going to be much more concerned about discretion than whose arms you can twist or whose strings you can pull, and if you aren’t careful, you’re going to find yourself completely shut out. Of a lot more than just this case. I trust I’ve made myself clear.”

Theresa McNaney said nothing. She just stood, glaring at Gordon, nostrils flaring. Christ, you’d think she was an eight-year old throwing a temper tantrum. The people you met in this line of work. If there hadn’t been such a large audience, he would have shaken his head and sighed in wonder. As it was, experience told him to keep it all business.

“All right,” Gordon said, nodding to Curtis, Simmons, Voss, and the two other suited flacks that Gordon didn’t recognize. “Let’s go in.”

“Have a seat, Ms. McNaney,” Charlie said, smiling broadly, gesturing at the chair at the other side of the hall. “I’ll keep you company.”

Theresa grimaced, cutting Charlie an icy look. “The letters—” she started.

“I’m sure Mr. Voss will appraise of you of the salient points of our discussions, if he feels it’s appropriate to do so,” Gordon said, no longer looking at her. After the last flack went through the door, Gordon followed, closing the door.

“Mr. Swan, let me apologize for Theresa’s behavior,” Howard Voss started. “I’m afraid she hasn’t been very professional so far.”

“No, indeed,” Gordon said. Curtis and Simmons chuckled. “Or very discrete.”

“No, sir,” Voss apologized. “I think you made the right decision. In all confidentiality, I would prefer it if I had that authority in regards to—well, working with her on this.”

Gordon smiled. “No doubt. That’s why you’re in here and she’s not.”

“Thanks. Let me introduce you to Terry McCord and David Ball. Terry is the Assistant Supervisor of Special Projects at the DOD. He’s immediately under Theresa McNaney. But it was felt that perhaps he should be involved as well, in case Ms. McNaney had to focus on other priorities.”

“Mmmhmmm,” Gordon hummed as Terry shook his hand.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Swan.”

“David works with me at the NSA. He actually spent a lot more time at Oak Ridge.”

David nodded, sticking his hand out. “I was working on the original team. For the last three months, it was Dr. Tsukishiro Yukito and myself working with the DOD on the investigation of Donald Bernhard. Dr. Yukito is still assisting us, going through materials at Oak Ridge—hopefully you’ll be able to meet him soon. He’s been very helpful so far. It—”

Gordon nodded. “He was the one that indicated Dr. Bernhard might be in Los Angeles.”

David nodded. “That’s right. You actually read the reports you get.”

Bob Curtis laughed. “That’s Swan. He’s always trying to make the rest of us look bad.”

Zach Simmons chuckled politely. Howard Voss spoke up. “As you may be aware, Deputy Directors Curtis, Simmons and Banning all received letters, at their home, on either Friday or Saturday, from Dr. Donald Bernhard.”

Gordon nodded. “Like this one,” he said, opening his own briefcase and pulling out the letter he had received on Saturday. “’I used my super powers of extra-terrestrial ESP to figure out you were going to be in charge of my case’.”

“That’s correct,” Voss said, a small, indulgent smile on his face, as if he was humoring a difficult child. Which rankled Gordon a little bit, but it was a decided improvement over McNaney’s open belligerence. “I expected that you received one, too.”

“So I think we can assume, at least four of us got these letters, that Donald Bernhard didn’t actually use some sort of alien technology to figure out who was going to be taking this case on at the FBI—”

Voss nodded. “I would say that’s a safe assumption.”

“But he obviously got our names. Our addresses. Knew our positions. Do you think he did that with something developed out of the stolen artifact.”

Voss looked uncomfortably at Curtis and Simmons, then back to Dr. Bernhard. “Um—I—”

“You can say anything you wish in front of Deputy Director’s Curtis and Simmons. I wouldn’t have brought them into this case, of course, but I wasn’t left that choice.”

Bob Curtis chuckled. “I’d guess not. Are you saying there’s something to this ‘artifact’ nonsense?”

Gordon breathed in deeply. “Somebody thinks there is. Voss here says he’s seen it do something. Shoot lightning or whatever. But there is something here. Otherwise, Bernhard—or somebody—wouldn’t have written us all this letter.”

Simmons nodded. “It’s a red herring.”

Voss looked at Simmons. “You think it’s a trick?”

“Well, shit, yeah,” Zach Simmons said. “He sent it to all of us and maybe a dozen more. He knew we’d know it was bullshit, right after we got it.”

“What about the political points—?”

Simmons smirked. “It’s a load of horseshit. Political wing-nuts announcing their intention to single-handedly show the world what-for don’t write neat, concise one page letters. They go on. Especially if they know you’re going to know who they are—they aren’t going to be cryptic. This guy—he made sure we all got it, that it all said the same thing, so when Gordon puts his agents on it—or whoever was going to be assigning agents made assignments—they’d have to waste a shitload of time following up political connections. I mean, the guy is talking treason. No matter how easy we all see it’s a load of shit, if this lands in your lap, you’ve got to follow it up and dot every ‘i’ and cross every ‘t’. It’ll be your ass on the line. But, yeah, this is all about throwing us off the scent. So what’d the guy take, exactly?”

Voss spoke up quickly. “Do you agree, Mr. Swan, that these letters are just a diversion?”

Gordon nodded. “Of course I do. He doesn’t even care if we know it’s a diversion. Didn’t care. Whoever wrote it knows we will have to follow up, knew, I’m sure, that just getting those letters would stir up a hornets nest. I just got put on this thing Friday and I’ve already put someone from the DOD under house arrest, and is she going to pitch a fit later.”

“I’ll back you up on that one, Gord,” Curtis said. Simmons concurred.

“I’ll back you up, too,” Voss noted. “She is making this difficult for everybody.” Gordon thought he heard a little just like you’re making this difficult for everybody, unsaid but still hanging over his words. Amazingly, Voss seemed to take all this extra-terrestrial horseshit seriously. McNaney, he could see how she might take investigations involving little green men very seriously. But Voss? Gordon Swan was pretty good at sizing people up, and he thought Voss probably had it pretty well together. But he really believed that Bernhard had stolen something from a UFO, and he really wanted to find it. It was a strange, strange world.

“So how did he get our addresses?” Gordon asked, looking from Voss to David Ball. “Did he build something from the UFO he stole from you guys? I mean, that’s not public information—”

“Well, actually,” David Ball said, “it sort of is for a number of government agencies. There’s an interagency directory on the ARAPANET and those with classified access can actually search on position and agency, and then get additional address information, if available—which for most of the people in the FBI, it is. And Dr. Bernhard and his staff all had classified access to the ARPANET, which would include interagency resources like the interagency directory.”

Bob Curtis’s jaw dropped.

“Well, shit,” Simmons said. “Does the directory include the best time of day to shoot us in our beds? Or the best place to wire our houses with explosives? Who the hell is on the ARPANET except for the FBI and Oak Ridge?”

“Uh, most of our government agencies and most research facilities and most colleges and universities are on the ARPANET—although, the colleges and universities don’t have access to classified government libraries, of course.”

“Uh huh,” Simmons said. “No twenty-year old college kid at MIT would ever be able to outsmart a forty year old bureaucrat at the DOD or the CIA—”

David Ball laughed. “You’re right, you’re right—technology is just moving so fast now, sometimes it’s hard to keep up. Most of the DOD network and the network connecting our military agencies and installations has been moved off ARPANET and onto MILNET, which is a closed network—”

“Most?” Bob Curtis asked.

“But there are locations that have access to both MILNET and ARPANET—Oak Ridge is one of them—and the interagency directory is still available under ARPANET, and there is another directory running on MILNET—”

Bob Curtis shook his head. “For the love of Pete.”

“So, what you are saying is Dr. Bernhard didn’t need to do anything special to get all our home addresses. Find out our names.”

David Ball and Howard Voss nodded simultaneously. David Ball said: “We know he looked your names and addresses up off the network, and then just sent each one of you a letter—the list actually covered forty different people. We assume some of the letters are in the mail, and some of the addresses in the directory are no longer accurate—”

“But no hocus pocus,” Gordon repeated. “No technology ‘synthesized from the alien artifact’, you agree with that?”

“Yes,” Voss interjected. “I think that’s actually part of the smokescreen—he intentionally did something that he could do using nothing more than his computer access, and then attributed it to some advantage afforded him by the artifact in the letter. Then, sent it to an entire list of people—just to drive the point home. To make himself seem like a fake. But he left a text dump of his address search in his personal directory on the mainframe at Oak Ridge. He knew we’d be searching his directory. He’d have to. So he wanted us to find it. Or was leading us to the conclusion, in case we were too stupid to reach it ourselves. It’s all about distraction. He’s trying to distract us from something.”

“He is?” Gordon asked. “I though he was dead.”

“He was trying to, I should say. What’s happening now are the results of things he set in motion, with the intent to mislead and misdirect, while he was still alive—”

“From what?” Gordon interrupted. “Why go to all this trouble? Political screeds? Claiming he did something with your ‘artifact’ that he knew that we’d find out he didn’t do—”

“Actually, I’m sure he left the list there for just that purpose,” Voss said.

“So why? Other than to prove, from beyond the grave, that he was smart and we’re all stupid? What’s the point?”

Zach Simmons was nodding. Bob Curtis was shaking his head.

“To keep us from finding out what he did do with it,” Voss said. “To distract us from looking where he actually hid it.”

David Ball nodded. “Or who he gave it to.”

“Hmm.” Gordon rubbed the bridge of his nose thoughtfully. “And we don’t have any idea who that might be. If there is a who.”

“Not yet. We’re looking into it. I’m afraid most of the obvious leads are too obvious. But, of course, you’ll have them—”

Gordon nodded. “And I’ll have to follow up on them.”

Voss nodded. “But I don’t think anybody on our side of the table would object to you going in the opposite direction. If that’s where you think the answers are. In the end, we want to locate the artifact. That’s all the ass covering anybody will need—the artifact, in our hands. Before it falls into the wrong hands.”

Like whose? Gordon thought. Boris and Natasha? Theresa McNaney? Someone with some damn sense?

“And despite the obvious fakery here, you still think that Bernhard wasn’t just pulling your leg? Going out with a bang? Giving a big ‘up yours’ to the slave drivers that signed his paycheck most of his life? You think he took off with this because, under everybody’s nose, he unlocked the secret code, stole the artifact, and did almost nothing with it—except kill himself.”

Bob Curtis and Zach Simmons joined Gordon Swan in looking at Howard Voss, David Ball, and the so-far silent Terry McCord expectantly. “Nothing that we know of,” Howard Voss said evenly.

Gordon saw Bob Curtis roll his eyes. Bob didn’t think any more of this nonsense than Swan did. And he was probably pissed for being dragged from his house on Sunday for this stupid meeting, to boot. Gordon could hardly blame him.

“So what do you think he did? Why go through all the trouble? Just to get this thing and end up dead? You don’t think he’s a political ideologue anymore than I do, I don’t think—”

“We just don’t know,” Howard Voss said. “We just don’t. Just like we don’t know what he did with it. But just because we don’t know what he might have done or had planned to do doesn’t matter. The fact that you and your colleagues think this is all horseshit doesn’t matter. You can think it’s just a glorified paperweight—you just get it back. And be careful with it.” Howard Voss paused, looking evenly at Swan. “In case it’s not just a paperweight.”

Gordon nodded. “I got that message on Friday. In fact, except for the letters, which tell us nothing about the location and, frankly, seem to argue against the assertion that there is serious value to this thing, I don’t really understand why we are all here.”

Voss looked down. “McNaney didn’t want to wait until Monday, Mr. Swan.”

“All right, I prefer an honest answer. The more of those I get, the more cooperative I can be. What I’m going to do now is ask that, unless they want to stay, everybody be dismissed so they can go and spend their Sundays at home. If you would go ahead and give me the copies of the letters, I’ll make sure they get added to the case file. Then I’m going to put a call into the agents I’m assigning. Then, I’m going home, and I don’t want myself or anybody else here to hear about this case until Monday. All right?”

“That’s entirely reasonable,” Howard Voss replied. “I apologize again—”

“One thing.”

Gordon looked up. It was Terry McCord. “I was working with Dr. Tsukishiro and Kevin McCall—he was our tech guy—the day we saw activity out of the artifact. Dr. Tsukishiro and McCall were closest—I was on the other side of the room, working on the laser.”

Gordon’s brow furrowed. “Kevin McCall. He was the one who went to the hospital.”
David Ball was nodding. “He sure did.”

“There was a projection,” McCord continued. “I couldn’t make out the content at the time, and the video tape system malfunctioned, so I can’t tell you what the projection was of, precisely. Letters. Numbers. Ideographs. Pictures. Symbols. Some English words, some Roman letters. Some recognizable numbers. And a lot more. I don’t know if it was a warning, or what it was supposed to be. If it was a warning, it didn’t give us much time—the laser was running, but at a strength barely higher than the laser in a bar code scanners at the grocery store—and it looked like the whole room went white. It felt like someone had just hammered nails into my eyes. I couldn’t see clearly again for almost an hour. I had held my arms in front of my face—I don’t remember doing so, I certainly don’t know how I had time—but I guess that is why I’m not blind. Unlike Kevin McCall. Or maybe that doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

Gordon looked closely at McCord. For the first time, Gordon realized that Terry McCord didn’t have any eyebrows. “It didn’t get me badly,” he said, watching Gordon’s eyes. “Not like McCall, or even Dr. Tsukishiro. But it got me.” Terry McCord undid the buttons on the cuffs of his shirtsleeves, and rolled them both up. Then he held out the underside of his arms to Gordon Swan. “And when you have something like this burned into your skin—it made a believer out of me. I’ll say that much.”

Gordon leaned over, carefully examining McCord’s arms. They were scarred, all right—jagged stripes that tapered off at the end near his wrist, a cluster of strips that looked almost like he had been branded with a bar code above that. Near his elbow were more bars, and a shape like a triangle, and what looked like a looping symbol, some sort of cloverleaf design, burned into his arm over his elbow. After a moment of looking at both of Terry McCord’s arms, Gordon blinked. The scars were mirror images of each other. Almost perfect reflections.

“I—“ Gordon started. “This—were you—facing it directly when this happened? Or—?”

Terry McCord shook his head, and lowered his sleeves. “No. I was standing at an angle. About thirty degrees. My right side was closer. It should have scorched me right side a lot worse than it did—“

“The scars—the patterns—they are identical—“
“Mirror images,” Terry McCord nodded. “Perfect mirror images. To the centimeter. Doesn’t make much sense. Maybe it was a message we were supposed to recognize.”

“And nothing else? Like that, I mean? It never did anything else like that?”

Voss and David Ball were shaking their heads. “No,” David Ball said. “Nothing. But we suspect it was shortly after that that Dr. Bernhard substituted his fake artifact for the real thing, which would explain—”

“So, he was so impressed with this thing shooting lighting and burning off people’s skin that he decided to take it home and play with it?”

“Or he may have had something to do with the event,” Voss said, frowning slightly. “On purpose or not. He may have had reasons not to be concerned. Or he may he just didn't care about the potential danger.”

“All right. Thank you, Mr. McCord.” Gordon looked at David Ball and then Howard Voss. “Thank you, thank you. I’m sure I’ll be in touch tomorrow, Mr. Voss.”

Bob Curtis and Zach Simmons both stood up as Voss, McCord, and Ball headed out the door. “Thanks for coming, guys,” Swan said apologetically. “I wouldn’t have called you in on Sunday, myself, but I appreciate that you showed up.”

Bob Curtis nodded his head. “Do what we can. Jeannie was pissed off. But what can you do?”

Gordon laughed. “Yeah, I have that same trouble with Helen.”

Bob leaned in, putting his hand on Swan’s elbow and pulling him closer. “You don’t buy any of this horseshit, am I correct?” he said, just loud enough that Simmons could hear him, too, but no one else.

“No,” Swan replied. “I haven’t seen anything yet—not even whatever happened to Mr. McCord’s arms—that tells me this is anything but garbage. But there are some people who take it seriously. And I can’t get out of running this investigation.” Swan smiled. “Unless I quit. Then maybe one of you guys could get it.”

“Uh, no,” Bob Curtis said quickly.

Zach Simmons shook his head. “What a hell of a thing,” he said as he passed Swan on the way out. “I do not envy you.”

Gordon chuckled. “As well you shouldn’t.” Gordon glanced out into the hall as Curtis and Simmons made their way out, where Charlie stood with Theresa McNaney, who was sitting and brooding. Gordon looked pointedly at Charlie. “Charlie, call my office and see if Jack’s down there. If he is, send him in here, would you?”

“Sure thing, Mr. Swan,” Charlie answered, and Gordon let the door to the conference room start to shut.

“Hey,” Theresa McNaney started. “What about—” And the door shut with a click.

Gordon shook his head. He thought about calling Helen, and decided against it. It wouldn’t help, at this point. Between driving in and conducting the meeting, he’d already been gone two-and-a-half hours and would be gone some more still. No, that would just stir things up. Jack was in—he could get calls out to the agents Gordon was assigning and get the paperwork started. Then Jack could go home, too.

“Mr. Swan?” Jack asked, sticking his head in the door.

“Come on in,” Gordon said. “Let’s do this quick so we can all go home. This is for case—” He looked at the top of his own note pad. “Case number 57786886-101. I want you to get the word out to Frank Andrews, Vic VanCleef and Lydia Chelsea that they are assigned as of now, and do the paper for me and I’ll sign off on it Monday. If you could, write a brief on the case—try to emphasize the need for discretion and downplay the ‘alien artifact’ gobbledygook.”

Jack nodded, his own legal pad out, pencil already working as he sat down at the end of the table. “Understood.”

“I’m going to go ahead and head home. Have Charlie show McNaney to the street after you’re done here. But not until.”

Jack nodded without comment, writing.

“And bring in some donuts in the morning for Bob Curtis and Zach Simmons.”

Jack nodded. “Will do.”

Gordon got up and headed for the door. Jack stood up to follow. Swan walked into the hall, where Theresa McNaney sat, glowering. She looked exhausted—probably from carrying around that giant chip on her shoulder—but still angry.

“Charlie, Jack’s got some work to finish up here, and when he’s done, he’s going to call down to let you know it’s all right to let Ms. McNaney leave.”

Gordon noted with a slight smile that Jack took a half-step backwards when McNaney lurched up, eyes wide and almost yellow, face flushing red. “What the hell—?” she started.

Charlie put one large, brown hand on There McNaney’s shoulder and easily forced her down into her seat. “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” he suggested. “If I need to put you under restraint, it might take a lot longer. You getttin’ out of here, I mean.”

“Swan,” McNaney hissed between clenched teeth. “I’m going to have your job for this.”

Oh, for Christ’s sake. Who really talked like that? “You’re welcome to it,” Swan replied. “Then you’ll get to deal with people like you.”

“You’ll see,” she said, her voice low. “You’ll see.”

“Your attempt to coerce by threat a deputy director of the FBI in front of two witnesses duly noted,” Swan replied. “I suggest, for your own good, you consider what you say from this point forward a little more carefully, and wait patiently, until Charlie tells you that you can go.”

McNaney just glared. Gordon shook his head, and continued down the hall, parting company with Jack at the elevators. “Try to enjoy the rest of your Sunday, sir,” he said as Gordon punched the call button for the elevator.

“And you don’t stay here too long,” Gordon said, looking back down the hall to where McNaney was sitting, Charlie’s hand still firmly on her shoulder.

“Just long enough,” Jack said, and smiled. “I’m not in that big of a hurry today.”

The elevator doors opened, and Gordon stepped in. “You’re a good man, Jack. See you Monday.”
“Yes, sir,” he replied, and continued on down the hall. Ah, to be Jack, he thought as the elevator doors closed. Young and energetic enough to work on Sundays without feeling like he had been kicked in the chest by an angry mule. Young and energetic enough not to dread the coming week, and what would, no doubt, be an ongoing conflict with McNaney, waged as much if not more with other people who didn’t want to deal with McNaney as with McNaney herself. Gordon rubbed his temples, leaning against the back of the elevator as it descended, eyes closed.

Four years, he thought. Just four more years.

Chapter 31

Washington, DC – Monday, May 30th, 1983 – 7:23 AM

When Gordon Swan arrived at his office, Lydia Chelsea and Vic VanCleef were already waiting for him, as was Jack. Frank Andrews was already in Knoxville, preparing to talk to some of the senior staff at Oak Ridge. As Gordon walked in, Jack handed him a department memo in a sealed brown envelope, marked confidential.

“For your eyes only,” Jack said, one eyebrow arched. Gordon sighed. He guessed he knew who it was from, and what it was about. Or rather, who it was about.

“Deputy Director Swan,” Lydia Chelsea started quickly. “I don’t want to rush you, but Jack has already briefed us and Agent VanCleef and I have 8:45 tickets to Berkley. Frank—”

“Frank is already in Knoxville,” Gordon interrupted. “I know. Just one minute, let me see if this is important. It’s probably related.”

MEMO# 567889
CONFIDENTIAL
FROM: W. WEBSTER
TO: G. SWAN
SUBJ:
BERNHARD CASE
CC: T. MCNANEY

Deputy Dir. Swan,

It has come to my attention that you detained Dr. Theresa McNaney unlawfully, outside of procedure, and forcibly evicted her from a scheduled conference at which she was to attend, without due cause. You have been asked repeatedly to give Theresa McNaney your full cooperation on all matters pertaining to this case. The FBI has assured the Department of Defense and the State Department of our full
cooperation in this matter.

While you will not be relieved from this case at this time, in the future, you will give Theresa McNaney your full cooperation on every issue.

Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation
William H. Webster

Gordon rubbed the bridge of his nose. For your eyes only, except where it was conspicuously copied to Theresa McNaney. Shit.

“Good news, boss?” Vic VanCleef asked as Swan turned around and put the memo in the paper shredder behind his desk.

“Not quite,” Swan murmured, frowning. “Jack briefed you?”

“Pretty much. It’s—ah—” Vic glanced at the open door.

Jack, just outside, leaned in. “Conference room six is open this morning.”

“That’s all right, just close the door,” Swan answered.

“Will do. I’ve got coffee for you guys, if you like.” Jack brought in three coffees, with little packets of sugar and Cremora, and set them on the edge of Gordon’s desk.

“Bless you,” said Lydia Chelsea.

“Thanks,” said Vic.

“Thanks, Jack,” Gordon agreed as Jack backed out of the room and closed the door.

Gordon took a sip of coffee and looked at VanCleef and Lydia. They made quite a pair. Lydia Chelsea was short, probably no more than five feet tall, brunette, and very pretty. Vic was huge—he could have been a quarterback in the NFL, blonde, and baby-faced. And that big, blond baby face had a way of getting information out of people. And keeping people quiet. “So, Jack did brief you?”

Lydia nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Um, yes, uh,” VanCleef mumbled. “It’s, um—different.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“I have to confess, I’m not sure quite how to take this,” Lydia Chelsea said. “I was told that this assignment was critical, that it was an extremely urgent case, that I had to get in immediately—”

“Yes, by direct order of Bill Webster,” Swan agreed. “That wasn’t my idea.”

“And then during the first three minutes of the brief, I hear words like ‘Extra-terrestrial’ and ‘artifact’ and ‘alien’ and—this almost sounds like a very bad, very late April Fool’s joke.”

Gordon nodded. “It’s not. At least, it’s not to the people who pay my paycheck. And yours. And I guess it’s not a joke to the people pulling their strings.” Gordon picked up his yellow legal pad and then tossed it down on his desk. “Look, you’ve been copied on the files I have—against the directions of hellbitch from the DOD, by the way, who has already made this case a nightmare for me. So don’t mention it. A lot of people are convinced this horseshit is real—or are cooperating in some sort of hoax. Either way, the demand for us to get involved comes from the very top, and there is nothing we can do at this point except conduct our investigation thoroughly and effectively.” He looked back and forth between Lydia and Vic. “And discretely. I don’t think I have to tell you that discretion is the most important thing in this investigation. Given the subject matter, you can see why the Bureau would be concerned about keeping this as low-profile as possible.”

Vic and Lydia nodded. “So,” Lydia said. “We’re to treat this as if we are looking for an—an alien artifact.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, it just sounds stupid to me to even say it. We’re supposed to treat this seriously?”

“You are supposed to treat the case seriously, yes. And the demand to keep it discrete, yes, you should be serious about that, too. And you should be careful.”

“We’re always careful, boss,” Vic said. “What’s different about this time?”

“Well,” Gordon said. “Well, it’s like this. I think it’s about as likely that there was some sort of alien artifact that Dr. Donald Bernhard stole as it is that you learned to shit gold bricks yesterday. This is horseshit. Whether the guys I met yesterday were fakes or just deceived, I don’t know—but I’ve met several people, some of them who sound almost reasonable, who have bought into it hook, line and sinker. Or do a really convincing job of lying about it. One guy yesterday had scars all up and down his arms, claimed it was the ‘artifact’. I can’t explain it, but I cannot accept ‘men from mars’ as the answer. But there’s something going on. I don’t think it’s little green men or flying saucers, but given the run-ins I’ve had with Theresa McNaney and the emphasis on this case I’ve gotten from Bill Webster, I’d say something ain’t right. There are a lot of people too interested in this. And I can’t believe that all of them take the idea of some stolen ‘alien artifact’ seriously.”

“Huh,” Vic said. “Hum. You know, the letter he wrote—”

“The one to most of the Deputy Directors in the FBI?”

“Yeah, that. He sent it to everybody, right? Saying he knew they got the case—even though they didn’t. Except you. And he had just looked up their addresses on his computer at Oak Ridge. Right?”

“That’s correct,” Gordon said.

“Why do that? If he didn’t steal some sort of alien laser gun, why go through that much trouble to throw us off the scent? To put all that political stuff in there. Why would he have sent anybody anything? And he didn’t kill himself—or die—until he was about to be caught, right?”

“That’s right. The L.A. Police had him cornered at a mall, and he keeled over, no sign of the cause of death. Or, that’s what the coroner’s report supposedly said before it was revised.”

“So he sends it to everybody, which makes it obvious he’s lying and he’s a fake, but he apparently knows exactly when he’s going to be turning up dead. How did he know that?”

“I don’t know. Coincidence? Guessing? The letter was written by somebody other that Donald Bernhard? An associate or an accomplice or someone else desiring to complicate the investigation? Maybe you can find out.”

Vic nodded. “We will.”

“The interviews in Berkley,” Lydia said. “Who are these people? Do they have any direct bearing on the case? Or is this just background?”

“The details are in your case folders—I know you haven’t had time to read them all yet, but it’s in there. They are people Donald Bernhard contacted frequently in the last six months. I suspect he was cultivating red herrings, given the conspicuous way he left contact information both in his house and on his person, but it has to be checked out.”

“So you think it’s a wild goose chase,” Vic said.

“Probably. But I can guarantee you everything we do on this case will be reviewed at the very top, and probably by people other than the Director. So we have to be thorough. And that means following up on every lead.”

Lydia checked her watch. “Still a little time,” she murmured. “So, Deputy Director Swan: what do you think? You don’t think this is really about some extra-terrestrial object, correct?”

“I do not.”

“But this man—Bernhard—was obviously up to something. What do you think happened?”

Gordon sighed, taking off his glasses and putting them on top of his legal pad. “I don’t know the answer. I just don’t know. But, one possibility seems to me that maybe these boys at Oak Ridge had something—a piece of meteorite or some old chunk of aboriginal architecture or something, and somebody decided it was really and truly and alien artifact, and we needed to throw a lot of tax payer dollars at it to see if it could tell us the secrets of the universe. Or how to make a better bomb. I think Bernhard was working on the project, or got called to work on the project, and thought it was horseshit, but figured that he’d go out with a bang. That he’d see just how much government money he could waste. It wouldn’t be the first time. See how gullible these people really were. Prove how much smarter he was than everybody else.”

Vic was nodding. “See how bad he could fuck with ‘em.”

“And how many people he could get involved. So far, the people at the NSA and DOD are involved, the FBI is involved now, California State Police have been involved—who knows how big a mess of shit he will have stirred up before it’s all said and done. If he wanted to go out with a bang, I think he did a pretty good job.”

Lydia Chelsea had a thumb into the brown envelope of her case file, looking thoughtfully at the tops of the pages. “And you don’t think there’s any chance that there was some sort of ‘artifact of unknown origins’ that had legitimate technological or perhaps military implications that Bernhard stole—either to keep it out of the hands of the U.S. Government or to sell to the highest bidder? He was seen at the Russian embassy shortly before turning up dead—I believe the report said he’d been three times in the past three months. You think that was all just Bernhard going out with a bang? Three trips to D.C. to go to the Russian embassy seems like an awful lot of trouble.”

“Trying to see if he could screw with the Ruskis, too,” VanCleef said, and barked a laugh.

Gordon smiled. “You make a good point, Chelsea. That’s why I’m sending you. Between you two and Frank, if there’s something legitimate here, I know we’ll find it.”

“Discretely,” Lydia murmured. She looked at her watch again. “I’d say we’ve got five more minutes before we absolutely have to go.”

“Go,” Gordon said. “You’ve got all the necessary information in the case file. So you know, I was told to provide information to my agents only on a ‘need to know’ basis. I have made the determination that you ‘need to know’ everything I do, and you should know that may not go over well with some people.”

Vic VanCleef, laboriously lifting his large frame out of one of Gordon’s small office chairs, grinned. “Par for the course, yeah?” he said. “Anybody in particular?”

“Watch out for Theresa McNaney. She’s a—let me see, she left me a card—a ‘Special Operations Coordinator’ with the DOD. She’s a superbitch. I don’t think she’ll be in the field. But I’m not sure what she’s capable of. I do know that when it comes to discretion—the chief concern in this case, from the Bureau’s perspective, if I’ve left you any doubt—I think she’s our biggest problem. Just keep an eye out for her. If she makes any sort of contact with you for any reason, notify me immediately. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Chelsea said. VanCleef nodded.

Gordon got up from his desk and came around to open the door. “You guys be careful. Touch base as soon as you hit Berkley.”

“Will do, boss,” VanCleef said, as he and Chelsea exited. “Have a good day.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Gordon said. He opened his mouth, planning to ask Jack to get him a fresh cup of coffee, when his phone rang.

Gordon groaned. He hated phones. Evil things.

Closing the door and sitting back down at his desk, he picked up the phone. It was Frank Andrews.

“I’m here,” Frank said. “I’ll be at Oak Ridge in a half hour. It’s, ah—Dr. Tsukishiro Yukito—he’s going to show me around, tell me about Bernhard. I’m going to see if he can lead me to anything. I don’t think Dr. Yukito cared much for Bernhard, I’ve gotten that much so far, and he really wants the—the whatever it is—he wants that back. Do they really think they were working on some alien artifact?”

“I don’t know, Frank,” Gordon replied. This conversation was getting old, and he had already covered it once with Frank. “I just don’t know. But I think some of them must. I’m pretty sure Theresa McNaney does. And I think Harold Voss does, too, so I guess it would make sense that some of the people working at Oak Ridge with Dr. Bernhard would think this was really some sort of flying saucer they had. Or they all put on a really good front and are lying for reasons I can’t begin to guess. How does that sound?”

“Sounds all right to me. I’ve already been to Bernhard’s house, and somebody has already been through it, maybe more than once. I don’t if know if they took anything, but all I found was staged stuff—lists of names and phone numbers, political manifestos. I think I have an address he was going to mail the ‘item’ to—in Nigeria.”

“Huh,” Gordon said. “Whatever it was, I don’t think he mailed it to Nigeria.”

“Neither do I. But there was nothing at his house except props. So, right off the bat, that doesn’t leave me much to go on, except what I can get out of the boys at Oak Ridge.”

“Just keep a low profile,” Swan said. “And call me the minute you think you have anything. The minute you think you might have anything.”

“Yes, sir. There is one other thing.”

Gordon paused, putting the phone back against his ear. “Yeah?”

“I saw two cars circle the block when I was at Bernhard’s house. I’d peg both of them as unmarked government. And a big white van—no windows. Had regular Tennessee plates, but looked like drug interdiction, to me.”

“Huh,” Gordon said. “Or surveillance. Seen any carpet cleaners in the neighborhood? South Central Bell? Parked Federal Express or postal trucks? Rental vans?”

“Saw a Chemlawn van. But they were out and spraying somebody’s lawn. And I did see a Federal Express van. Parked, about two blocks from the house, but in the line of site. Is there anybody else working this case?”

“I wasn’t told of anybody else actively working the case right now. But I don’t think I’m being told everything.”

“I’ll keep my eyes open. You want I should try and talk to one of these jokers?”

“Please. If there’s anyone else working this case, we ought to know. Tennessee State Police were notified that Federal was conducting an investigation—”

“I called the troopers when I got here. They didn’t say anything about anyone else coming down, or anything else going on. But some of the cars I’ve seen circling the neighborhood I’d bet money are state vehicles. I wasn’t close enough, but one of the drivers looked to be a uniformed officer.”
“But the car didn’t have government tags.”

“No, sir. Regular Tennessee plates. Looked new. But most sheriff’s stations are full of standard plates and expiry tags. But re-plating official cars is not procedure, as far as I know.”

“But Tennessee Troopers do undercover. See if you can flag down one of these guys—but be careful, they may be dangerous. I don’t know what’s going on, but none of this sounds right. And call the State Police and ask them. Tell them you’ve seen cars out of that look like unmarked troopers and ask them if something is going on that you ought to know about. Call Louis Parker at the Tennessee Bureau and see if he can’t shed some light.”

“Yes, sir,” Frank said. “I need to go ahead and get out of here. I’m going to talk with Dr. Tsukishiro Yukito in half-an-hour. But I’ll check back in after the interview.”

“Good. Keep me appraised.”

“Yes, sir.” There was a click on the other end, and Gordon put down the receiver. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. It fit exactly with his suspicion that there was something else going on here, something he was not being told about. It involved Oak Ridge and Dr. Bernhard, he was sure, but it wasn’t any alien artifact. Not at the very bottom of it. At the bottom, there was something else.

He sat for a moment, staring blankly at the legal pad on his desk. Then the phone rang again. Evil things.

It was going to be a long day.