Second Contact

by Mike Resnick

  “They stay out of military affairs, Max, unless you commit a crime right under their noses. I don't know if they'll do it.”

  “Have someone call them and explain the situation.”

  “We come back to the same problem: who do you trust to make the call?”

  Becker sighed deeply. “I don't know,” he said. “I honestly don't know.”

  “How about just walking into the local police station and demanding protective custody?”

  “Not a chance,” replied Becker adamantly. “They'll think I've slipped a gear and stick me in Bethesda, right next to Jennings. If I'm going to be killed, I at least want my assassin to have to work up a sweat.”

  “Well, you're going to have to tell me what to do, Max. If you're crazy, I've got to humor you, and if you're telling the truth, I don't want to be responsible for sending the wrong guy after you.”

  “I know,” said Becker wearily. “All right. Call somebody in Covert Operations who's totally unconnected with the Jennings case and tell them to bring me in.”

  “You mean deliver you to the police?”

  “Right. Have them make the arrangements.”

  “Where can I reach you when it's set up?” asked Magnussen.

  “You can't. I'll reach you.”

  “Give me half an hour.”

  “All right. I'll call you then.”

  Becker broke the connection, then returned to the hotel lobby. He decided against going back up to his room, and instead stopped by the hotel's all-night coffee shop, where he spent the next fifteen minutes reading the sports pages from the previous day's newspaper.

  Finally he got up, went back outside, found a different vidphone booth, and called Magnussen again.

  “It's all set,” said Magnussen.

  “What are the arrangements?”

  “Be in front of the Washington Monument in half an hour. There's a vidphone booth there. Wait right next to it.”

  “Who did you contact?”

  “Covert Operations.”

  “Give me a name.”

  “Colonel Marcus Weldon.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “You're not supposed to have heard of anyone in Covert Operations,” said Magnussen with a grin.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That I had a friend who needed police protection, and that his job was to get you safely into protective custody.”

  “Did you tell him my name?”

  “I had to. Otherwise he wouldn't have agreed. He had to run it through the computer and make sure you were really within the space service's bailiwick.”

  “Not smart,” said Becker. “Somebody's bound to recognize my name.”

  “These are our people, Max.”

  “These are the people who put a hit out on me.”

  “What else could I do?” said Magnussen in exasperation. “Look, if you don't trust me, or you've got any doubts, don't show up.”

  “I have to take the chance,” said Becker. “I can't spend the rest of my life in hiding.” He paused. “Which police station are they taking me to?”

  “I don't know.”

  “All right,” said Becker. “You've done your part. Thanks, Jim.”

  “I still can't believe this is happening.”

  “It's happening, all right,” said Becker. “And Jim?”

  “Yes?”

  “Be very careful.”

  “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that anyone who talks to me might not qualify as the military's favorite person this week.”

  “Don't be melodramatic, Max. Nobody's going to shoot me for answering your phone call.”

  “I hope not,” said Becker breaking the connection.

  He flagged down a cab and went directly to the Washington Monument, arriving about fifteen minutes before his saviors from Covert Operations were due.

  The vidphone booth was deserted at this time of the morning, as was the entire area. An overhead light totally illuminated the area around the booth, and he felt too much like a target standing there, so he walked back into the shadows around the base of the monument where he couldn't be seen from the street. He lit a small cigar, checked his watch, and waited.

  Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen, and finally twenty. He checked his watch again.

  He was considering entering the booth and calling Magnussen to make sure he was at the correct location when an unmarked green car slowly pulled up to the curb.

  Becker backed further into the shadows and peered out at the car—and suddenly, through the darkness, he saw the light reflected off the barrel of a gun.

  The car came to a stop, two large men got out, spent a moment walking around the area of the phone booth while Becker retreated still further, conversed in low tones, reentered the green car, and drove off. Becker waited another half hour to make sure that they weren't going to return, then began walking again. He'd gone perhaps a mile when he stopped at another vidphone booth and dialed the last eight digits of his Social Security number.

  “Yes?” said Jaimie's familiar voice. Something, probably a cloth, covered the camera so that he couldn't see her.

  “It's me,” said Becker.

  “How's it going?” she asked.

  “Not very well,” he said. “They know I'm in town and they're after me.”

  “How did they find out?”

  “I called Magnussen.”

  “Not smart, Counselor. What the hell did you think he could do for you?”

  Becker shrugged. “I hoped he could bring me in.”

  “He's a lawyer, not a spy. He wouldn't begin to know how to go about it.”

  “I know.”

  “So he went to someone who does know about this kind of business, and they came after you and tried to kill you,” she concluded. “Is Magnussen part of it?”

  “I don't think so, but I don't dare contact him again.”

  “So what are you going to do now?”

  “I suppose I'll go back to my hotel,” said Becker.

  “Dumb,” she said bluntly. “They know you're in Washington, and they must know you're not at your apartment. They'll be checking every hotel in town. What name did you use?”

  “Ramis.”

  “That's got to light up some computers. You'd better come over to my place.”

  “Your apartment?”

  “My hideout.”

  “What's the address?”

  She gave it to him. It was on the edge of the city's largest slum.

  “What if someone's tapping your line?” he asked suddenly.

  “Believe me, I'd know it if anyone was trying to listen in.”

  “I've got another name for you to check out while you're waiting,” said Becker. “Colonel Marcus Weldon.”

  “Space service?”

  He nodded. “Covert Operations.”

  “I'll get busy on it. And Max?”

  “Yes.”

  “Be very careful.”

  “I'm pretty sure no one's following me.”

  “That wasn't what I meant.”

  “Oh?”

  “Wearing a white face in my neighborhood at five in the morning isn't the most brilliant disguise in the world.”

  “I'll be careful,” he assured her. “What name should I look for on the mailbox?”

  “Just come to the address. I'll know when you've arrived.”

  “You've got the place rigged already?”

  “Booby-trapped is more the word for it. Just enter the foyer and wait for instructions.”

  “Right,” he said. “See you in twenty minutes.”

  It took him almost fifteen minutes to find a cab this time, and the first two he stopped refused to drive him to the address he wanted. Finally he found a cabbie who rode with a powerful revolver laid on the front seat next to him, and a few minutes later he was passing through a housing project that should have been torn down forty years earlier. He began feeling uneasy, and placed his hand in h
is pocket, touching the revolver for security.

  Finally he arrived at the address Jaimie had given him. He entered the lobby of a four-story building that was in dire need of repair and stood in the musty foyer. A moment later the inner door slid open, and he walked into the interior of the building.

  “Up here!” called Jaimie's voice, and he began climbing the stairs, almost tripping twice on the torn carpeting.

  “Third floor, Counselor!” she called again, and soon he saw a light coming from her open door.

  “Well, I see you made it safe and sound,” she said as he entered her apartment. This one was neither as large nor as luxurious as her permanent dwelling place, but it was still far more elegant that the exterior of the building promised.

  “I wish you hadn't yelled like that,” he said. “Someone could have spotted me.”

  “Not very likely, Counselor. I'm the only resident.”

  “Oh?”

  “I own the whole building.”

  “Why did you buy it?” he asked. “Surely you didn't think you'd need a hideout someday.”

  “I own all but three buildings on the block,” she replied. “As soon as I get my hands on them, I'm going to tear down the whole block.”

  “What'll you put up in their place?”

  She shrugged. “I haven't decided yet. Probably bunch of soup kitchens and free stores for the locals.”

  “You never struck me as being all that philanthropic.”

  “I need the tax write-off.”

  “That sounds more like the Jaimie Nchobe I know.”

  “Just your typical enlightened slumlord,” she replied with a smile. She led him to a sofa in her living room. “Did you have any trouble getting here?”

  “Nobody tried to kill me since I spoke to you, if that's what you mean,” he said. “For a while I thought I was going to die of old age before I found a cabbie who was willing to come here.”

  She sat down on an easy chair a few feet away from him.

  “By the way, I found out a little about your friend Lieutenant Ramis,” she said.

  “What?”

  “He's a killer, all right,” she replied. “He used to free-lance for the CIA. Killed the wrong man in Johannesburg six years ago, went into hiding, and didn't surface until eight months ago, when he got a commission in the space service.”

  “Who's his immediate superior?”

  “Well, now, that's the interesting part,” said Jaimie with an amused smile. “He works directly for Colonel Marcus Weldon.”

  “The guy who just tried to wipe me out?”

  “Right.”

  “That's very interesting.”

  “May I assume that your next question will be: who's in charge of Covert Operations in the space service?”

  “You may.”

  “General Benjamin Roth.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He's stationed in New York, but given how many of his people are out to kill you, the order had to come from him.”

  “Then once I talk to Jennings and find out what they did to him to make him change his plea, Roth's the next man I have to see.”

  “Jennings changed his plea?” she said, surprised.

  “Yes.”

  “To insanity?”

  “Temporary insanity,” replied Becker.

  “When?”

  “While we were in Illinois.”

  “Oh, boy,” she said in a small voice. “You'd better forget Jennings and get to Roth, and the sooner the better.”

  “I want to know why Jennings changed his plea.”

  “It doesn't matter, Counselor,” she said.

  “It does to me.”

  “Don't you understand?” she said. “Jennings doesn't matter any more.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because even if they thought that killing you was the best way to screw up Jennings’ defense—which is a pretty ridiculous thought when you get right down to it—they wouldn't still be after you. They would have stopped the minute Jennings changed his plea.”

  “Damn!” he said. “I've been so busy running for my life that I haven't even considered that.”

  “Well, you'd better start considering it right now.”

  “They've got what they wanted,” he said, frowning, “and they're still after me. What the hell does it mean?”

  She stared at him for a long moment.

  “It means we're in big trouble, Counselor.”

  13.

  Jaimie fixed Becker a gin and tonic, then made the same for herself and sat back down in her easy chair.

  “All right, Counselor. Let's see if we can figure out why they still want you dead.”

  “It can't have anything to do with the Jennings case,” he said. “That's as good as over.”

  “It's got to have something to do with it,” she replied. “They didn't start shooting until you tried to defend a plea of not guilty.”

  “But they've got what they want from him. He's pleading temporary insanity, the case will take all of ten minutes to resolve, and everyone will have what he wanted.” He paused. “Except Jennings. I'd have bet my pension that he'd have died before he agreed to temporary insanity.”

  “Forget about Jennings,” she said. “It's you they're after. Or, rather, us. Why?”

  “I don't know.”

  “I don't either, but they don't mobilize all those hit men without a very good reason. What do we know that's got them in such a panic?”

  “Nothing,” said Becker.

  “That's not so, Counselor,” she corrected him. “We know a lot of things. We just have to figure out which is the one they want to kill us for.”

  “All right,” said Becker. “We know that Montoya isn't in Great Lakes. Or, at least, we think the man I spoke to wasn't him.” He paused, his face masking his frustration. “They don't kill people for that.”

  “Keep going.”

  “We know that they created a story about a drug ring, and even went so far as to plant phony data in their computers.” He looked at her. “They don't kill people for that, either. I mean, hell, the truth is that there's no drug ring; you'd think they'd be out to kill people who spread the lie.”

  “What else?”

  “We know that Gillette really is in deep space, and that Mallardi is on Mars. Probably Montoya's there too.” He stared at her helplessly. “So what? Who cares? They didn't have anything to do with a drug ring. As far as we know, they haven't broken any laws or subverted the military. Why should anyone want to kill us because we know these guys are innocent?”

  “We also know they killed the wrong man in Lake Forest,” said Jaimie.

  “You'll never be able to prove the military was involved in it,” said Becker dejectedly. “Besides, he was supposed to be me. Which means that when it happened, we already knew something they thought was worth killing us for.”

  “Well,” suggested Jaimie, “let's work backward, then. When did they first try to kill you?”

  “When I called MacCarron and tried to arrange another meeting with Montoya.”

  “In other words, when they suspected you knew Montoya was a fraud.”

  “Right.”

  “If Montoya was a fraud,” continued Jaimie, “what does that imply to you?”

  “That there wasn't a drug ring,” replied Becker. “But we already knew that. We found it out on your computer.”

  She shook her head. “You're answering it the wrong way. Why did they try to convince you there was a drug ring?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Yes you do.”

  Suddenly he stared at her. "Aliens?"

  “See?” she said. “I told you you knew.”

  “You're as crazy as they are!” said Becker.

  “Let's continue to attack it logically,” she said, unperturbed. “Why does someone go to all the trouble of fabricating a story?”

  “To mislead the investigator,” said Becker grudgingly.

  “All right.
Jennings told you his story. You set out to prove it. And the second you did so, the military moved heaven and earth to prevent you from proving it. All the machinery to create this fabrication was immediately set into motion. Hell, they even anticipated you—they sent Gillette back into deep space before you were ever assigned to the case.”

  She leaned back on her chair and took another sip of her drink. “Now,” she went on, “if Gillette, Montoya and Mallardi were sent all over the solar system because they couldn't corroborate the fabrication, what do you suppose they'd have said if you could have cross-examined them?”

  “Not that Provost and Greenberg were aliens,” said Becker. “That's impossible!”

  “Do you remember what Sherlock Holmes once said?” asked Jaimie. “Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however unlikely, must be the truth.” She paused. “Now, you don't know that Jennings’ story is impossible. On the other hand, you do know that the story about a drug ring is impossible, and so you must eliminate it. What's left?”

  “Sherlock Holmes was a character in a goddamned book,” protested Becker. “We're talking about aliens in the United States space service, aliens that are virtually indistinguishable from humans. I spoke to some scientists right after Jennings told me his story. You know what they said? They said the odds were trillions to one against it.”

  “What are the odds against Gillette being involved in a drug ring?” she asked.

  “There aren't any odds. We know he wasn't.”

  “That makes a trillion to one look more palatable, doesn't it?”

  He shook his head. “It's ridiculous! And if it was so, why would the space service be willing to kill anyone who found out about it? Are you saying that aliens have infiltrated the military up to the highest echelons, and that everyone else is blindly carrying out their orders?”

  “I'm not saying anything. There's more to this business than meets the eye.”

  “You can say that again!” muttered Becker.

  “I mean,” continued Jaimie, “that if they wanted to eliminate everyone who knew about aliens, they'd have started with Jennings, wouldn't they? They'd never have let him speak to you.”

  “That's what I've been trying to tell you,” said Becker in exasperation. “Forget all this alien crap, and let's try to figure out what's really going on.”