by Darcy Fray
She pulled a man-size multi-tool from her backpack and took the liberty of picking the lock on Gordon’s door, a skill she inherited from her father. She quietly shut the door behind her and took a quick look around. Gordon’s Nobel Prize still hung on the wall behind his desk and a few textbooks remained on the bookshelf. A desktop computer sat on a small portable table just to the left of his desk. It proved far too great a temptation.
Harper powered up the computer, breezing by the weak security. As a rebellious young teen, she had fallen in with an international hacking collective composed of a bunch of wayward twenty- and thirty-something-year-old guys who found joy in messing with right-wing politicians, greedy corporations and oppressive regimes. Harmless stuff, until they decided to post the NIN video for Closer on the homepage of the UK Conservatives Party. One sloppy mistake led the Conservative Party’s hired team of computer security specialists straight back to thirteen-year-old prodigy Harper Crisp. Her gravely disappointed father had been forced to call in a favor with an old SAS team member, who at the time was in the employ of MI5. They let her off with a slap on the wrist. The security firm was so impressed by Harper’s work, they offered her an internship right on the spot. As a form of punishment, Fletcher forced her to take the position. She put in a full summer’s work and received an invaluable education in computer security and the best ways to circumvent it.
She nosed through the files on his hard drive. The guy was squeaky clean, boringly so...physics, physics and more physics. Harper missed the edgier nature of her East Coast MIT friends, whose intelligence didn’t preclude a keen sense of pop culture and an appreciation of mischief making.
She’d grown up in Los Angeles, but never really felt like she belonged. Though she was unconventionally pretty herself, she found the LA obsession with looks and celebrity to be mind-numbing. One only needed a modicum of knowledge to stand out among the sea of pedestrian intellects.
Harper browsed through a few photos on his hard drive, stopping to admire one of Gordon standing in a cap and gown, holding his diploma. Having been briefed on his family situation, she imagined Gordon’s now-deceased parents standing behind the camera and proudly smiling at him as they snapped away. At least she and Gordon had that in common. Motherless souls were rudderless souls.
A flashing prompt demanded her attention. A flash of panic squeezed the oxygen from her lungs. Sloppy, Harper. Sloppy.
“Hello.”
Her cyber presence had clearly been detected. She shifted nervously in her seat. How did this person know she wasn’t just an associate backing up Gordon’s files? She instantly reverted to her younger teen self who sat nervously on the edge of her bed awaiting a lecture from her disappointed father. Was he in danger?
“Hello,” she replied; each letter seemed to take a lifetime to type.
After a moment’s pause, the blinking cursor returned with the response, “Looking for something? Gordon perhaps?”
“Gordon is dead,” she replied.
“You like to play games. Me too. We shall be fast friends.”
“Who are you?”
“I am a man of no consequence. A mere cog in the machine. Much like you, Harper.”
Seeing her name pop up on the screen sent a chill up her spine. He was watching her. It was the only possible way he could know her identity. Panicked, her eyes scanned the room for cameras. Nothing.
“I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong person.”
“Do you see the silver pen resting on the far left corner of the desk?”
Harper shifted her eyes in the direction he indicated. It was tucked in neatly among a few stray textbooks.
“Yes.”’
“Pick it up.”
Harper did as she was told. A cursory scan of the pen revealed nothing unusual.
“Good girl. I can see you much better now.”
Harper was certain there was no lens on the pen. She unscrewed the bottom to take a closer look. A quick burst of aerosolized fentanyl sprayed her directly in the face. Her head dropped to the desk within moments.
•••
Moscow, Russia - Ararat Park Hyatt
Fletcher and Gordon approached the front desk in the spacious lobby of the Ararat Park Hyatt. The Ararat was the perfect blend of modern and traditional with dark leather sofas, armchairs, shining marble flooring and rich red wood walls.
Though Fletcher hadn’t spoken of it last night, Gordon could sense Melanie’s sudden disappearance had rattled him. The two men had waited at the table for twenty minutes, in the event that she had popped off to use the powder room, but she never returned. They sat and nursed their drinks in silence. Fletcher’s gut told him it wasn’t because she needed an early night and he allowed himself to question her motives. She had seemed overly enthusiastic, but then again, he did have that effect on women. Stupid mistake.
Fletcher eyed the attendants at the front desk and quickly chose a pretty young woman to work his charm on. Eager to learn from the master, Gordon observed from his side.
“Hello there, love.” Those three simple words, combined with the disarming smile and gravelly British accent, had opened many doors.
“Good evening, sir. How may I help you?” The cheery smile was a good sign.
“One of your guests, a Ms. Melanie Johnson, left her scarf in my room last night and I was wondering if you could tell me what room she’s staying in?” Fletcher cocked a right eyebrow and flashed a cheeky grin. He could write a textbook on this stuff.
“Let me check for you,” she replied with a knowing smile. She typed Melanie’s name on the computer, discreetly tucked into the desk. She perused the results with a puzzled expression on her face.
“I’m afraid we don’t have any guests checked in under the name Melanie Johnson. Are you sure she’s staying here?”
“Did she perhaps check out late last night?”
“Well, I’m not supposed to give out that kind of information...but I can tell you if you leave the scarf here at the desk, I will have no way of getting it back to Ms. Johnson.”
Fletcher reached across the desk, gently holding her hand in his. “You’ve been very helpful. Thanks, love.”
She appeared to melt under his touch. Gordon wondered if he should be taking notes. Clearly he was in the presence of The Woman Whisperer. No wonder he had had so little success with women. He had been doing it wrong all along.
The two men left the desk and headed toward the exit.
“Thanks, love,” Gordon mimicked in his best English accent.
“Well, look at that. There’s that sense of humor again. You know what your problem is?”
Gordon shrugged his shoulders. He was pretty sure he didn’t want to know.
“You interact with women like they’re computers. It’s all about the first five seconds. You need to make them smile...and save your jokes. They don’t make sense.”
“I don’t have an accent.”
“Don’t worry about the bloody accent. You just need to find one special thing. She may weigh more than a Mini, but that doesn’t stop her from having beautiful eyes or a nice smile. Just like war. Disarm them first, ask questions later.”
“Are you married?”
The question caught Fletcher off guard. “Yes...no...was.”
Gordon instantly regretted asking him. It was the first time he had seen Fletcher speechless. The two men walked in silence as they descended into the subway station and boarded the train bound for Konstantin’s home.
“My wife was a scientist too.” Fletcher looked out the subway car window, lost.
•••
Moscow, Russia - Chekhov Residence
The lifeless eyes staring down upon Gordon made him feel about as comfortable as an ant under a magnifying glass at high noon. His nervous knee-bounce kicked in as he settled into a chair opposite Konstantin, at the ancient mahogany desk that looked like it had stories of its own to tell.
“Thanks for inviting me here,” Gordon offered as an iceb
reaker.
“I assure you, it wasn’t a selfless gesture.”
Konstantin’s desk was cluttered with papers, books, rocks and a few forgotten coffee mugs. Gordon fought back an urge to tidy it. He had no idea how anyone could work under such conditions.
Then, he saw it.
Peeking out from behind one of the mugs was the blackest thing he had ever laid his eyes upon. Its very presence seemed to darken the room.
“May I touch it?” Gordon inquired, his covetous gaze focused on the pyramid.
Konstantin pushed the object toward him.
Gordon turned it over and over in his hands; its unexpected weightiness and color seemed its only extraordinary characteristics. He had hoped to feel something...anything, but all that came of the exchange was a nasty scratch on his palm. As he set the pyramid back down on the desk, the small wound began to bleed.
Konstantin pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Gordon. Gordon reluctantly accepted, taking just a little too long inspecting its cleanliness.
“It’s freshly laundered,” Konstantin reassured him.
“Sorry -- germophobe.” Gordon applied the handkerchief to his wound and watched the blood seep up through the thin white cotton material.
“Indeed.” Konstantin pushed a notebook toward Gordon. “My studies.”
Gordon skimmed through the notes. Though predominantly written in Russian, and thus unintelligible to Gordon, it was nonetheless an impressive lifelong accounting of a single object.
“I thought your friend would be joining us?”
“He’s...waiting outside,” Gordon replied, opting for truth over fiction.
“I see. So tell me why this pyramid means so much to you, Dr. Gray? Did it play a role in your death?”
Gordon mustered a weak smile. Perhaps Fletcher was right. Scientists just aren’t funny.
“Have you heard anything about the anthrax attack in West Virginia, by chance?”
“I saw the video on the news. Curious incident.”
“Well, the anthrax story was a cover. Twenty-two people disappeared into thin air. No trace of their existence remains. One kid survived, but he’s blind and has little to offer as a witness. The man outside your front door found a pyramid exactly like yours on site. I was working with the U.S. Army, but due to a rather complicated chain of events, I am no longer in contact, nor assisting them. And that’s why I’m here.”
The revelation excited Konstantin. He had always known something was special about the object the moment his grandfather handed it to him. Tunguska. Perhaps the rumors were true?
“What is your opinion of the pyramid’s relation to the disappearance?”
“I believe it’s either a window or targeting device for some sort of directed high-energy weapon.”
“Are you aware of the rumors surrounding the Tunguska event?”
“Yes. Black holes, anti-matter, meteorites…aliens.” Though young, Gordon was a scientist through and through. Science offered answers based on fact. There was little room for blind faith in his world. Based on logic alone, if one were to ask him if he believed there was a possibility that intelligent extraterrestrial life could exist elsewhere in the universe, he would have to answer, “Yes.” Statistically, one would be foolish not to allow for the possibility. However, the discussion of intelligent alien life in academic and scientific circles usually led to odd looks, whispers and bad jokes. Gordon felt silly even mentioning it to Konstantin.
“The first two are simply ridiculous from a scientific point of view. Would you agree?”
“Yes.” The black hole theory had been batted around in the early ’70s by two physicists from the University of Texas who proposed that the Tunguska event was caused by a small black hole passing through the Earth. Their hypothesis was considered flawed, as there was no so-called exit event--a second explosion occurring as the black hole, having tunneled through the Earth, shot out the other side on its way back into space. Based on the direction of impact, the exit event would have occurred in the North Atlantic, close to the seismic recording stations that collected much of the evidence of the initial event. No such readings were recorded. The black hole and antimatter theories also failed to account for evidence that cosmic material was deposited by the extraterrestrial body, including dust trails in the atmosphere and the distribution of magnetic spherules around the impact area.
“Leaving only a meteorite or the little green men.”
“So it would seem,” Gordon concurred, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.
“My grandfather Gregor found this pyramid along with hundreds more in the heart of the impact zone in Tunguska. He was instructed to leave the pyramids at the site, but he chose to keep one. Not a single pyramid was scratched, burned or scarred in any way. More than 800 square miles of trees were flattened. I have visited many impact craters and seen many things, but nothing like this.” Konstantin held up the pyramid in admiration.
“Did he ever mention the coordinates of the site?”
“I’m afraid not.”
A prolonged silence passed between the men. They both knew where the conversation was heading.
Gordon dropped his gaze. “Did your grandfather find any signs of alien life at the site?” There was no avoiding the awkward nature of the subject. Two scientists talking about aliens. It was like creationists discussing the Big Bang.
“There was a second expedition team that reached the site at the same time as my grandfather. They erected a large geodesic dome over a portion of the site. It was heavily guarded and he saw no more than three or four men enter or exit it at any time. The skies around the dome glowed a bright blue, even in the dead of night. My grandfather and his team all suffered intense nausea and migraines during their short expedition. He died from an extremely rare disease called sporadic fatal insomnia. There are only a handful of diagnosed cases on record. Doctors still do not know what caused it, but his autopsy revealed a large inoperable glial cyst on his pineal gland.”
Gordon looked at Konstantin with a quizzical expression. “Biology isn’t one of my strengths.”
“Some call the pineal gland the ‘third eye.’ It’s an endocrine gland in the brain. It produces the hormone melatonin, which controls wake and sleep patterns. After returning from Tunguska my grandfather would go without sleep for two or three days and then sleep for an hour or two at most. The disease progressed and by the end he was lucky to sleep ten minutes a month. He hung on for years and years, far longer than any of the other documented cases. My grandmother remained by his side but it destroyed their marriage. Have you ever observed someone who hasn’t slept for four days?”
Gordon shook his head.
“It is like living inside your worst nightmare – one you can not discern from reality. He suffered hallucinations. He’d see moving shadows. Ultimately it caused dementia and paranoia. He spent the last ten years of his life in the Kashchenko Psychiatric Hospital.”
“I’m sorry. That must have been rough.”
“I was just a boy when he died.”
“Did he ever mention what he thought might have been inside the dome?”
“No. Through the years, he spoke on and off about the expedition, but he was not a man of conjecture. He handed me the pyramid two hours before his last breath and in a rare moment of clarity, he said ‘It’s there.’”
Konstantin took a moment to gather himself. He had never discussed his grandfather’s passing nor the cryptic pyramid with anyone before, and here he was talking to a complete stranger...an American, at that. The odd thing was that it felt completely natural, as if he was in the right place at the right time, speaking to the right man.
“I’m sorry for your loss. I have already taken too much of your time, but I have just one last question. Do you have any idea where the remainder of the pyramids were sent?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t. I was hoping you might be able to answer that for me,” Konstantin replied. “Please take this. It is of
no use to me anymore. Perhaps it will offer you some guidance.” Konstantin handed his notebook to Gordon. He had not intended to do so, but the hands of fate were moving.
•••
Somewhere Over The North Pacific
Harper awoke to the deafening sound of helicopter blades cutting through the thin glacial air. Her head felt as though it was on the verge of rupture, and the pain was so intense, she welcomed the idea. She had suffered through her share of blistering hangovers, but nothing ever like this. She could barely lift her head from the cold metal floor it rested upon.
Everything was black. Pitch black. She struggled against the blindfold that covered her eyes and the straps that bound both her hands and feet, only for a moment. Pain coursed through her veins and each movement only made matters worse. Her thin black hoodie offered little protection from the cold winds above the North Pacific. She balled up, calling out in agony and frustration. Her scream was no match for the roar of the chopper.
The Kamov Ka-60, painted black against the deep blue midnight skies, floated on, like a lone bird over a sea of possibility.
•••
Moscow, Russia - Subway
Fletcher had always been able to sense impending danger, a power he cultivated growing up on the rough-and-tumble streets of South London’s Brixton. He knew something was amiss the moment he and Gordon entered the subway car. A drunk vagrant sprawled across the bench and a twenty-something goth girl draped over her cello, performing Elgar’s sorrowful “Cello Concerto in E minor,” were the only other occupants. Neither traveler bothered Fletcher. It was the 6’4” steel-jawed ironman who thrust his arm between the closing doors of the departing train that worried him. Responding to his brute force, the doors sprung open with little resistance.
The adrenaline surge was instantaneous. Fletcher’s heart rate escalated. Vision sharpened. Hearing became unusually acute. He could feel the pulse of the hulking man through the thickening air. Time slowed to a near-standstill as Fletcher watched him pull a Makarov pistol from his waistband. Gordon. Fletcher spun around to find Gordon with his back to the assailant walking toward the bench opposite the goth-girl cellist. He was too far away. Fletcher spun back around. He had only one option. As the man raised his gun Fletcher dove through the air, placing his body in the line of fire. It was just enough to throw off the aim of the startled assailant. When the bullet grazed Fletcher’s shoulder, he felt nothing but a flash of heat. His impact with the bench was another story altogether. Fletcher heard the cartilage in his shoulder tear as it dislocated, but there was no time for pain. From his prone position on the floor, Fletcher swept the assailant’s leg with a powerful roundhouse kick, sending him crashing to the floor. The pistol flew from his hand.