Pagan's Spy

by Matt Eaton

  I am expecting a detailed report and will review future funding and operational status based upon the information received.

  Sincerely,

  Dwight Eisenhower

  Skunkford offered the letter back to Edna. She almost suggested he keep it as a souvenir, but decided it was better in her possession. No paper trail that way.

  “Curious thing,” said Stamford, “but I’d been assured Mr Eisenhower wasn’t in the loop on this project. Nobody has advised me otherwise.”

  “I disagree, sir,” she said. “You’ve just been advised by the President himself.”

  Stamford wasn’t amused. “Quite.”

  The giant hangar doors slowly swung open as the limousine approached. They drove into a vast open as high as it was wide that contained four planes, but with enough floor space for three times as many. Around each of the aircraft, groups of technicians in grey overalls continued about their work without bothering to cast a glance in their direction. No doubt they had become highly skilled at turning a blind eye to all matters that weren’t their immediate business.

  The hangar roof was at least 100 feet above their heads. Crane gantries crisscrossed the rafters and there were multi-story viewing platforms in each of the furthest corners. With so much to take it, the elevator in the hangar wall was the last thing Edna noticed. Here Stamford placed a key in a lock and turned it, activating the elevator button, which he pushed.

  She couldn’t help but compare the facility to Tavon’s barn in Virginia. Lockheed’s version was a pale comparison, but impressive nonetheless. The elevator took them to the lowest of the facility’s three subterranean levels. Here the ceiling height was much lower, though still at least 30 feet from floor to ceiling. Paolo Favaloro’s gleaming silver saucer hovered in the middle of the room as if suspended on invisible wires.

  She heard herself gasp. “Oh my God. It’s incredible.”

  It was about 20 feet in diameter. Its outer shell was made of a single sheet of metallic alloy. It showed no seams nor rivets and gleamed like a mirror. Realizing she could see right underneath it, she bent down to see how that was possible.

  “What’s holding it up?” she asked.

  “The craft’s mass is counterbalanced by its internal anti-gravitational propulsion system,” Stamford explained. “This basically renders it weightless.”

  “How do you fly it out of here?”

  “We don’t. Not anymore. Flight is no longer the priority. It’s chewed through too many of our test pilots. Does something to their heads. Our focus is on understanding how it operates, with a view to replicating it one day.”

  “How’s that coming along?” she asked.

  “Slowly.”

  “You’re not getting anywhere, are you Garrick?” Tavon decided.

  Skunkford said nothing.

  “Mind if I get up close and personal?” Edna asked.

  “Knock yourself out,” said Stamford, signaling to someone behind glass on the far side of the chamber. Lights behind the saucer switched on and Edna saw in amazement the skin of the craft actually changed color.

  “It reacts to bright light,” said Stamford. “We think it’s some sort of cloaking device.”

  She touched the hull and found it remarkably warm. “It almost feels alive.”

  “It is,” said Tavon, who placed his hand next to hers. There was a click and something in the under surface rippled like water as a hatch opened and stairs lowered to the ground.

  Stamford’s mouth fell open. Edna turned to Tavon. “Did you do that?”

  Tavon smiled. “Want to go inside?”

  They ascended a short staircase to a sparse cabin containing two white seats that rose from the floor as if they had grown from it. Everything was pure white and again no seams were visible anywhere, but it was darker on the inside and it took her eyes a few moments to adjust. There was just enough room for them to stand, but Edna felt an almost irresistible urge to sit. As she did so, she noticed a plain white panel in front of them begin to glow when Tavon touched it. She did likewise and felt a gentle hum pass through her like a tiny electric shock. Then the cabin itself became brighter. She pulled her hands away then, suddenly remembering what Skunkford had said about the ship messing with test pilots’ heads.

  But Tavon did not hold back. He placed his hands in various places across the panel like he was feeling his way through its operating systems.

  “Do you understand it?” she asked.

  “I think so, yes.” A portal opened right in front of them, revealing the walls of the underground hangar. Which was when Edna realized they were moving. They bounced off the wall of the chamber like a ping pong ball and started to pick up speed. Curiously, Edna noticed at this point the portal instantly reverted to the leading edge of the craft, so they could always see where they were going. It had to be some sort of TV screen, though the picture was so clear it was impossible to distinguish from a window.

  Technicians were waving their hands at them in a desperate call for Tavon to slow down, but were eventually forced to dive out of the way when he didn’t.

  “Don’t hurt anyone,” she pleaded in alarm.

  “Not possible,” he said. “The ship can’t do that. Its anti-grav system makes it bounce off all exterior objects. Brilliant design.”

  He kept them moving around the chamber, demonstrating skill and dexterity in maneuvering and control of the ship. All the while, people outside kept waving in desperation and refusing to clear the way. It was the oddest thing to watch; the viewing screen jumped about so much she often had to look away to avoid getting dizzy, but at the same time felt no sense of movement inside the cabin.

  “They’re not going to be happy with you,” she said.

  “I’m just having fun. Showing them it’s not as hard as they think it is.”

  “Tell me how you’re doing it,” she urged.

  He had an oddly distant expression on his face. It was a look of detached concentration, almost like he was in a light trance. “The ship is talking to me. Explaining itself. You try,” he urged.

  “Oh, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I don’t want to become a basket case like Bill Donovan.”

  “You won’t,” he insisted. “I’ve recalibrated the system. It’s now modulating at a vibrational frequency within human tolerance. The problem was it had been set to match Ryl physiology.”

  She put her hands on the control panel and felt a surge of power beneath her palms. Immediately, myriad options appeared in the air before her. She sensed she could move through these options by focusing her thoughts and a moment later actually understood what she was looking at. It was like the ship’s brain and hers were plugged in to one another. She could detect navigation, propulsion and elevation controls and even spotted sleeping quarters hidden right below them. There were maps of the Moon and the surface of Mars, along with detailed routes along trenches deep in the Atlantic and Pacific oceans. She literally had the galaxy at her fingertips.

  “Garrick won’t let me leave now,” Tavon said. “He thinks he’s one step ahead of me, but he forgets I know how his tiny mind works.”

  “He wouldn’t dare — we’re here on behalf of the President.”

  “These men are a law unto themselves, Edna. But don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”

  “It’s you I’m worried about.”

  FORTY FIVE

  Tuesday September 1, 1953

  When they finally emerged from the saucer, they found themselves surrounded by men with machine guns. Stamford was stood safely behind them. “Take them to separate rooms,” he ordered.

  The last she saw of Tavon was him being led away with two barrels in his back. She was mad, but also scared. Two of the men nudged her forward. She turned around to glare at Stamford. The gunmen looked like they would happily open fire on command. Stamford was obviously a law unto himself here.

  “I’ll remind you we’re here on the President’s authority,” she said, trying her best to sound incensed ra
ther than terrified.

  “Relax,” Stamford told her, “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just regaining control of my hangar space. That was quite a show you two put on.”

  “That was Lee. You better not hurt him either.”

  “Are you kidding? Lee’s my lucky charm. I wouldn’t harm a hair on that man’s head. But we haven’t seen one another for quite some time, you see. We need time to catch up, that’s all. You, on the other hand... what am I to do with you, Miss Drake?”

  “How about some food?” she suggested blithely. “I’m starved.” She was bluffing; food was the last thing on her mind. She just hoped he didn’t notice she was so scared her whole body was shaking.

  “Good idea,” Stamford decided. “Let’s get you some dinner.”

  His office suite took up the entire top floor of a much smaller two-level building a short distance from the main hangar. He drove her there in a three-wheel golf cart with an armed guard sitting where the golf clubs should be. Somebody had phoned ahead. By the time they reached his rooms, waiters were laying out a generous spread on a conference table. It was a utilitarian room, no doubt used more for engineering and planning purposes than executive gatherings. But the chairs were comfortable and might double as a weapon if the occasion arose.

  Every seat at the table had a clear view across the tarmac to the runway and the hangar building a few hundred yards away. Arranged neatly on the food platters was a baked ham, roast chicken, oysters, lobster, coleslaw and green salad, along with a choice of red wine or champagne. Far more than the two of them could eat.

  “Help yourself,” he told her. “It’s all fresh. I know it feels like we’re in the middle of nowhere, but Los Angeles is only sixty miles to the south of us. I have food brought out three times a week.

  She grabbed a plate, knowing from previous experience food should never be refused in captivity — there was no way to know how long it might be before the next meal turned up. There was, of course, a risk the food was drugged. Perhaps anticipating her reluctance, Stamford filled a plate for himself. She did likewise, then poured herself a half glass of red wine because she knew if she started on champagne she wouldn’t stop. She needed to keep her wits about her.

  “You’ve come a long way since your days as a reporter,” he observed. “Right to the heart of the action.”

  “Believe it or not, today is not the strangest experience I’ve had in recent months,” she said.

  “Are you truly this indifferent or just trying to impress me?”

  “No, I wouldn’t say indifferent. Overwhelmed might be a better way of putting it. I’ve heard so much about this saucer of yours, and seen all the films of your test flights.”

  “Then you should know how big a deal it is that you and Lee just made my entire research operation look like a bunch of fools.” She sipped her red wine and ate her lobster, waiting for him to fill the silence. Like most men of power, he loved the sound of his own voice. “I was sorry your trip to Rome was a failure, but I rather think you’ve delivered me something even better. I suspect Paolo Favaloro is no pushover. I hear he looks down his nose at us mere mortals. But Lee is one of us — you know what I mean.”

  “He’s given you what you want. You need to let us go.”

  “What I want?” Stamford stared at her with a look of admonition. “None of this is what I want. I’m working in the service of my country.”

  “Without any sort of legal or governmental oversight. Or so you thought.”

  “Ike will play ball once we show him what we’ve got. Oh, and by the way, I’m not detaining you. The scary man with the gun has gone. Leave any time you like, I won’t stop you. But I’m afraid Lee isn’t going anywhere. He’s one of us now. I must say, I’ve kinda missed him. He’s always been my lucky charm.”

  “What if I told you I won’t leave without him?”

  “Then I will have someone deliver you to the nearest motel,” Stamford replied. “As I say, I’m not going to hold you against your will. Please don’t try to tell the President any different. My advice? Jump on that plane and fly back to Washington. Safest place for you, sweetheart.”

  His meaning was clear: this was no place for a woman. She resisted the urge to throw the dregs of her red wine in his face. “I’m going to Edwards Air Force Base. I plan to see the Roswell crash wreckage.”

  Stamford nodded, apparently unsurprised. “I wish you the very best of luck with that. I haven’t been able to get anywhere near the place.” Judging by his tone, he obviously thought if Edwards was closed to him then Edna had no hope, even with a presidential letter of entry. “Then again, who knows?” he said, shrugging. “Maybe a pretty face will open doors. Tell you what, there are still a few hours of daylight left, why not take one of my cars? It won’t do you any harm to arrive in a Lockheed vehicle.”

  Stamford’s magnanimity was hard to pin down. She knew he had something up his sleeve, and she didn’t want to leave Tavon. But Lee had told her it would come to this.

  FORTY SIX

  Tuesday September 1, 1953

  Skunkford made good with his promise, providing her with a white Ford Meteor with Lockheed printed clearly on the driver door. The friendly airman on the front gate gave her clear directions and said it should take her a little over half an hour to get to Edwards, which was about 30 miles north.

  For the second time in two days, she was forced to abandon a friend to an unknown fate as she continued about her business. But this might be her only opportunity to access the Roswell wreckage. Here at least, she felt certain her letter from the President would hold sway despite Garrick Stamford’s initial skepticism.

  It was six o’clock by the time she hit the open road. She noted every side road and landmark along the way, knowing she would be driving home in the dark with little or no street lighting to show the way. She cut through the eastern outskirts of Lancaster. It was a small town, but she saw several people out walking their dogs. A sharp turn to the east took her past a few lonely houses dotted along the road in a locality known as Redman. What it was that brought people out here? It couldn’t have been the natural beauty.

  Just past Redman, the road turned north again and now, with the day fading fast, she was the only car on the road until all at once cars approached her from two directions at once. The car approaching from the north slowed down and pulled across both sides of the road to block her way. She slowed to a halt some distance away, wary about getting too close. Two men in suits hopped out of the car and pointed pistols at her. She hurriedly stuck the Ford in reverse, but backed into another car that had pulled up behind her. This driver got out too and likewise brandished a gun.

  They yanked open her door and grabbed her by the arms.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she screamed at them.

  “This is as far as you go, Miss Drake,” one of them told her.

  “Who are you?”

  “We won’t hurt you unless you try to get away. I’d suggest you don’t do that.”

  One of them threw a hood over her head. They bustled her into the back of their car. “What about my car?” she complained.

  “We’ll take care of it.”

  They drove her south — away from Edwards. By her estimation, they made it about as far as Redman before the car turned in the opposite direction and headed into the middle of nowhere. About 15 minutes later, they came to a dusty halt and she was marched inside an old wooden cottage that, from the smell of it, was not being well maintained.

  One of the men pulled off her hood. “Take a seat,” he urged. She looked around. There were empty wine and beer bottles scattered around the threadbare carpet. Wallpaper hung from the walls. A dirty old two-seater lounge was the only place to sit. It looked like someone had been using it as a bed.

  “I think I’ll stand,” she said. “What am I doing here?”

  “Waiting.” Same guy again, the biggest and most imposing of the three. Tough guy and designated speaker.

 
; “Waiting for who?”

  “For the boss,” he said.

  She wasn’t buying the hard man routine. “You’re CIA, right?”

  Tough Guy slapped her across the mouth. “Enough talking.” She tasted metal and felt the cut on her lip. Bastard. She spat blood on the floor. It splashed across his black Florsheim bluchers. He looked at her in disgust. “Commie whore spat on my shoes,” he yelled in outrage, like this was an offence against God.

  Definitely CIA. With some degree of vindication, she quickly took a seat on the lounge lest he raise his hand a second time. She told herself they didn’t mean to do her serious harm, just to scare her. It was starting to work.

  She sat in stony silence until the boss made his entrance about 20 minutes later. He was pale and gaunt, of average height with a slight stoop and dressed like a funeral director in a dark suit and homburg hat. The other three men turned attentively toward him. He acknowledged them each in turn without saying a word then set his eyes on Edna. He looked pleased. Like they had her bang to rights.

  “I take it you’re James Jesus Angleton,” she said.

  “You’re smart, I’ll give you that,” he said. “But not smart enough. You think you can just waltz into Edwards Air Force Base without me knowing?”

  She glanced in Tough Guy’s direction, half expecting him to be snickering. He remained expressionless, his shoe trauma forgotten. They were measured, these men. When they did something, they did it for a reason. That was good. It meant they still had a code, even if it wasn’t the law.

  “How would I have any idea what you know? And why would I care?” she asked. “You really don’t know who you’re dealing with, do you?”

  “I’ve had eyes on you for some time, Miss Drake. Since Rome, in fact. How ironic you chose the very home of Christianity as the place to betray your country to godless heathens.”

  She shook her head, laughing. “Mossad led you up the garden path and now you’re seeing fairies. We were lucky to get out of the Vatican with our lives. I’d been shot in the arm by the woman you’re suggesting recruited me as a Soviet spy.”