by Darcy Fray
Melanie smiled to herself as she approached the window-side table. This was going to be easy. Tasked with infiltrating Veritas Bellum, it was less than four months on the job and she had already wedged her foot in the door. Surely, the so-called truth movement could use an oil industry insider? With no knowledge of Veritas’s direct connection to the mass disappearances, Melanie had no clue she had stepped into a buzzing hornet’s nest.
As she placed her hand on the seat back of the chair, a tall, fit young man in a flashy suit gently swept it aside.
“Please, allow me,” he offered politely.
Melanie’s training and experience told her not to trust the strikingly handsome man, but his impossibly blue eyes and chiseled jawline spoke to her more loudly. What harm could it do? Fletcher was a mere thirty feet away and besides, her ego could use a little boost after the earlier fiasco.
She allowed the handsome stranger to push her chair in.
As she turned to thank her new friend, she was greeted by a sharp burning sensation on the side of her neck.
Everything went black.
Melanie’s body collapsed in on itself like a rag doll. The young man caught her in his arms, holding her firmly against his side. He effortlessly guided her lifeless body across the crowded bar.
He answered questioning looks from fellow revelers by simply raising his cupped hand to his mouth and tipping his head back, suggesting that his flopsy friend had imbibed one drink too many. The gesture was more than enough to elicit sympathetic glances and knowing smiles from all he passed. It was always so easy with women. He hoped for the same result with the Englishman and the young scientist.
•••
Fort Huachuca, AZ - Wilkinson Residence
Lieutenant General John Wilkinson’s last contact with Gordon had been exactly eighty-one and a half hours ago and each second that had since passed felt like an eternity. Gordon had trusted him and that trust had cost him his life. Wilkinson had lost men in battle, but this was personal. He succumbed to self-pity for only a moment before allowing the pain to re-emerge as a vengeful rage. Someone will pay.
The incident had not passed unnoticed. It was a colossal diplomatic screw-up. Behind closed doors, the Russians were throwing around words like “espionage” and “assassin”, further setting back already strained U.S.-Russian relations. Wilkinson had been summoned by the president himself, and their brief conversation involved more finger-pointing than actual words.
The Russians had cemented a giant wall of obfuscation around the incident. Information was controlled and conflicting. The charred corpses of the two CIA agents Wilkinson had sent to escort Gordon back to the hotel were en route back to the U.S., but the whereabouts of Gordon’s remains had become something of a mystery. The Russians claimed all that remained of Gordon was mere ash, but the facts just didn’t add up.
Gordon’s phone had “gone quiet” after he last spoke with Wilkinson outside of QuantumCon, but the satellite positioning data continued until it terminated just outside the western fire exit of the Grand Europe Hotel. Wilkinson retraced each of Gordon’s steps after their last conversation and it just didn’t make sense. Too many questions.
Wilkinson sat behind his home-office desk, nursing a coffee and staring at the positioning data on the printout in front of him. He felt helpless. The higher-ups were well aware of his emotional ties to the case -- and there was no room for emotion in international diplomacy. The Russians were upset about the tightening Iranian oil sanctions and weren’t opposed to using Gordon’s case as a bargaining chip. The whole thing was a mess. Wilkinson was officially put on leave for a few weeks until things “cooled down.” There was little he could do but hope.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Gemologist
Moscow, Russia - Chekhov Residence
KONSTANTIN CHEKHOV PLACED the portable phone back in its cradle atop his desk. It was an unusual call. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had made such a specific inquiry about lonsdaleite, or even the last time he had conversed with an American, for that matter. At eighty-three, he was retired from the Moscow Gemological Institute, the school he’d co-founded, and outside of occasional interview requests, his phone rarely rang with business inquiries anymore.
He looked up from his desk and gazed around his expansive woody den. Dozens of eyes stared back at him. Raccoons, deer, squirrel, bear, antelope, zebra and hippo...lifeless, they consumed every inch of his wall space. Watching the watcher. Konstantin couldn’t recall when his love of taxidermy had first taken hold, but it was second only to his love of gemology and had become an all-consuming hobby. Through the years, his pursuit of rare gems and beasts had often gone hand in hand. A purist through and through, Konstantin only mounted animals he had hunted and killed himself, and he’d travelled the world in search of his next trophies.
The call. Odd. He opened his desk drawer, reached under it and peeled back the tape that held the key. He arose from his desk and walked over to a large metal cabinet with dozens of small alphabetized drawers. Konstantin unlocked the “L” drawer and gently pulled it open.
Sitting there in the middle of the drawer was a small black pyramid.
•••
Moscow, Russia - Patriarshy Pond
Konstantin’s instructions had been simple. Come alone and meet at the green park bench along the west side of Patriarshy Pond in downtown Moscow’s affluent Presnensky district.
Fletcher wasn’t about to let Gordon out of his sight, so they travelled the short two kilometer distance by foot and subway, allowing him to safely tail Gordon, unnoticed by any other observers.
Still shaken by the incident at the bar the previous evening, Fletcher had only allowed himself light catnaps during the night. Though sleep-deprived, his senses were sharp and tuned. He’d made up his mind that nothing was happening to the kid on his watch.
As he approached the pond, Gordon walked by a seated statue of Russia’s most beloved fabulist, Ivan Krylov. Coincidentally, Ivan had been a good friend of Alexander Pushkin’s. Pushkin had amusingly modified Krylov’s description of “an ass of most honest principles” (The Ass and the Peasant) to provide the opening of his romantic novel in verse, Evgenii Onegin. So well-known were Krylov’s fables that readers were immediately alerted and amused by Onegin’s first line, “My uncle, of most honest principles.”
Gordon passed couples young and old, individuals and clusters of friends, as he walked the icy perimeter. It was large for a pond, but even from the opposite bank, Gordon could clearly see the diminutive figure on the bench, awaiting his arrival. With a manicured neon white beard and full head of matching hair, Konstantin Chekhov certainly cut a striking figure.
As Gordon walked the circumference of the pond, he brushed by two lovers lost in an impetuous kiss on the snowy bank. Funny how someone else’s happiness can make you feel so bad about your own failures, he thought. His wistful gaze lingered on the young couple: so fully absorbed in one another, they didn’t even notice his passing. He walked on toward the bench.
It was an unsettling feeling, knowing you are being watched. He couldn’t see them, but he could feel Fletcher’s eyes on the back of his head. If it had been anyone else but Fletcher, Gordon felt certain it would have driven him mad, but the Englishman was special -- his mere presence empowered Gordon. As he neared the bench, he felt nothing....no fear, pain or anxiety. He had a job to do.
“Dr. Chekhov.”
“Yes, Mr. Cosby, I presume. A bit younger than I had anticipated.”
Gordon extended his hand. “Jerry. And I’m older then I look.”
“Indeed, so how can I help you? Our phone call was less than illuminating.”
“I apologize for my rather vague inquiry, but I had hoped we would be able to meet in person for a private discussion.”
“I am a discreet man and expect the same in return.”
Gordon nodded in agreement. “Understood. What can you tell me about lonsdaleite?”
“
Well, it’s a rare hexagonal diamond found in its natural state at meteorite sites. Most notably, Canyon Diablo in the United States, Goalpara in India and the Allan Hills meteorite in Antarctica.”
“And Tunguska?”
Konstantin looked surprised by the question. “Tunguska, yes, there too.”
“Have you ever come across any of the Tunguska lonsdaleite?”
“My grandfather, Gregor Chekhov, was the first mineralogist on site.”
“The 1921 expedition?”
“No, much earlier than that.” The event occurred in 1908, but due to the remote destination and turbulent political climate, a documented Russian expedition didn’t reach Tunguska until over a decade later in 1921.
A prolonged silence hung in the air, allowing Gordon’s mind the freedom to explore unproven theories and wild suspicions. His naive black and white view of the world had been replaced by one painted in a multitude of grays. Konstantin’s distant gaze did little to dissuade his wandering thoughts.
Konstantin broke the silence. “Perhaps we can circumvent the lengthy prologue and begin with the chapter that is of an interest to us both?” Like Gordon, Konstantin had little time for dancing around truths.
“I have some questions about a pyramid-shaped object composed of lonsdaleite,” Gordon replied, more than happy to skip the pleasantries.
Konstantin couldn’t quite believe his ears. Stone-faced, he contained his excitement. “I see. Tell me more about the object.”
“Well, it’s black and measures about three inches across its base and about two inches high.” Gordon carefully mapped out the dimensions and shape with his index fingers.
There was no question, it was identical to the pyramid Konstantin had been given by his grandfather, mere hours before his death.
“Do you have the object in your possession?” Konstantin inquired.
“No.” Gordon dared not tell him he hadn’t even actually laid eyes on it. “Have you ever seen anything matching the description?”
Konstantin was faced with a choice. Lies or the truth? The mysterious pyramid had served as a dead end for far too long.
“My grandfather gave me an item fitting that description...before he passed.” Konstantin was a hardened man, not prone to displays of emotion, but his grandfather held a special place in his heart. Gregor had practically raised him. He directed his damp eyes downward to avoid Gordon’s scrutiny.
“May I see it?”
“Well, I suppose that is the question. Isn’t it?” Konstantin looked Gordon squarely in the face. He had dealt with enough liars in his life to recognize Gordon’s honest eyes. “Let’s start with your real name, shall we?”
“My name is Gordon, Dr. Gordon B. Gray.” It was a huge relief to hear the words leave his mouth. A simple confirmation of his own existence. “There are people who want me dead and I may have put you in danger by arranging this meeting.”
“Danger is relative. I cannot swim, so the pond poses a bigger threat to my well-being at the moment than you do, I’m afraid.”
Gordon smiled. Konstantin’s gentle demeanor calmed him.
An image flashed before Konstantin’s eyes. It was the smile, he recognized. The Russian papers had all used a photo of Gordon taken at a Caltech function honoring his Nobel Prize win. Gordon hated posing for photos and almost never smiled on command, except in this particular portrait. Of all the press photos he had posed for in his life, it was odd that would be the one to find its way into the Russian papers.
“The dead young physicist.”
“Yes, that is correct,” Gordon stated flatly with little hesitation.
“Why would anyone want to kill a young Nobel Award-winning physicist?”
A snowball flew directly into the back of Gordon’s head. Startled, he leapt to his feet and swung around to find a teen boy walking toward the bench. “Prastee meenya pozhalosta,” the boy said, with a sheepish expression on his face.
“He’s asking for your forgiveness,” Konstantin translated.
Gordon waved his hand as if to say “no problem” and smiled at the boy, who ran back toward his amused friends. Gordon returned to the bench.
“Sorry. I have an exaggerated startle reflex.”
“So it seems. Shall we continue this conversation at my house this evening?”
“Yes. I would like that.”
“Will you be bringing your friend?” Konstantin gestured in the direction of Fletcher, who was sitting on the bank of the pond, about a hundred yards from the bench.
Gordon responded with a forced quizzical expression. He was a terrible liar.
“He can’t take his eyes off you. I’ve seen collectors peer at precious gems with less admiration.”
•••
Three Months Earlier - Undisclosed Location
The room was white. Too white. The glare reflecting off the floor and walls was enough to pinpoint the most cavernous of pupils.
Men and women dressed in sterile white lab coats entered and exited the immense room through a capsule-shaped glass-walled tube. The reverberation of delicate footsteps and an ominous industrial hum provided the soundtrack in the otherwise eerily quiet workspace.
At first glance, the immense wall looked like some sort of a Kubrickian futuristic sci-fi morgue with hundreds, if not thousands, of corpse drawers covering it. A longer second glance revealed the entire wall was in motion, with the drawers rotating through a series of labyrinthic formations, with no apparent rhyme or reason. Each drawer had a transparent door illuminated by a penetrating green LED projection that displayed a series of four continuously changing numbers. Behind the numbers it was still possible to make out the shaved heads of the unfortunate “volunteers” as they lay awaiting their final breaths, each head cradled in a stainless steel haloed contraption whose prongs anchored deep within their skulls.
Lab technicians stood in silence before the wall as if it were some sort of sacred shrine, busily typing away on their small handheld computer devices. Occasionally, as a drawer rotated down to the bottom row, a technician approached it and pressed a small red button situated in the upper right corner of each drawer, instantaneously causing the body within to disappear. It happened so rapidly that it was impossible to tell if the body was ejected into some sort of compartment behind the wall, or if indeed it just disappeared into the ether. After a drawer emptied, its thick, transparent door sprung open, signaling its availability for a new occupant. Shortly thereafter, a technician would roll in another sedated body on a surgical cart, position it in front of the now vacant drawer and wait for the automated entry process to begin. The efficiency and grandeur of the entire operation was both breathtakingly beautiful and macabre at the same time.
Suddenly, an earsplitting alarm shattered the muted rhythm of the workspace. A red alert light flashed on and off above the west wall, casting an ominous glow upon the room and the panicked occupants below. The dozen or so lab technicians in the room all raced for the ballistic glass-walled walkway at the room’s exit, ignoring emergency protocol as they pushed and shoved their way in.
Meanwhile, one drawer near the top of the stack had begun flashing a series of red numbers on its LED readout at a seizure-inducing rate. The wall’s other drawers all shifted to allow the flashing one to return to the bottom row.
After the last technician had forced his way through the crowded capsule’s doorway, one calm individual pushed his way through and coolly approached the wall. It was Dmitry. He had regained a few pounds as well as his old ruddy complexion, his bedraggled beard a distant memory.
He stood in front of the suspect corpse drawer, which had now made its way down to the center of the first row. Unflustered, he observed the continuously streaming data on the front of its door. Dmitry pulled a handheld computer device from his white lab coat and began to type. The combination of the deafening alarm and the obnoxious red alert light had no apparent effect on him whatsoever. He entered one final string of data into the handheld computer device
and walked away from the flashing drawer. The alarm and alert light both ceased and the drawers resumed their normal patterns of motion.
Slowly, the still-anxious technicians began to filter back into the room, and resumed their automatous duties.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Hack The Hacker
Pasadena, CA - Caltech
HARPER SAT AT her desk, throwing an aged piece of Silly Putty against the wall of her insignificantly-sized cubicle. A framed 5” x 7” photo of her mother and father rested on the edge of her desk, providing the spartan nest’s sole connection to humanity. Like Gordon, Harper displayed a lack of talent for decorating and could care less what that said about her.
She hadn’t heard from her father since he left for Russia. The lack of communication was unlike him and she was sick of waiting. She grabbed her backpack and skateboard before proceeding to the exit of the Annenberg Building, home to the Department of Computing and Mathematical Sciences, and her cubicle.
She threw the board down on the cement sidewalk immediately outside the door and skated off toward the Bridge Building.
The tone on campus since the reporting of Gordon’s death was decidedly dour. Nerds were unnatural mourners and Harper found the candlelight vigils and public memorials nauseating. She blamed Gordon for her father’s absence and held no regard for his poster boy status.
She hopped off her board in front of the Bridge Building and bounded up the stairs leading to the entrance. The hallways were dark and empty...and the smooth floors looked too good to pass up. Harper dropped her board and carved down the hall.
Gordon’s old office remained untouched, the academic equivalent of retiring the jersey of a superstar athlete. Flowers and notes from his many admirers decorated the hallway outside his door. She looked down at the doorknob. Disgusting. A lace brassiere hung from it. She picked it up and flung it to the side. She had seen Gordon’s Nobel photo plastered everywhere and she frankly didn’t see the appeal. Too boyish. Looked like he could play the preppy, brainy one in a boy band.