Debbie couldn't believe what she was hearing. "Lost his train of thought? What in God's name was happening to him?" She pulled away from him fearful of what he might do next and, when safely out of his reach, she confronted him. "Don't you remember what you just did, Burt? You nearly broke my arm. And then you yelled at me! You yelled! And you scared me! You scared me then and you scare me now!" She was hysterical and nearly in tears.
Burt stopped abruptly. "I did?" His mind had gone completely blank during his tirade and to him, Debbie was the one who had gone over the edge, not him.
"Yes, you did!" Debbie screamed at him. You hurt my arm and then you yelled. And it all happened after I asked you about your experiment. When I asked you what you were feeling when you linked, you became an animal, and then you------you just changed back. I don't think it's funny!"
Burt, stunned, didn't respond immediately. He didn't understand what was happening in his mind, and he couldn't believe he had done the things Debbie had said he had done. He began to question his own sanity, but said nothing. He had been feeling different inside ever since leaving the hospital. He couldn't put his finger on it. He just felt different somehow. He had hoped the weekend away from work would help, but it didn't. Not even making love for the first time had been earth-shattering. It hadn't even phased him, and he had barely thought about it all day. He knew this wasn't normal, but yet he couldn't help himself. He didn't know what to think of her accusations either, and in spite of the fact what she said bothered him, he chose not to respond. Something inside him was ugly, and the ugliness was troubling him and it was slowly growing, like a cancer. It was changing him and no matter how much he tried to ignore it, its black tentacles were grabbing hold.
Finally, Burt spoke up. "I'm sorry, Debbie. I just don't remember. I just don't understand myself anymore, that's all. Maybe we'd better go back to the house."
His answer was short and pointed and not very satisfactory as far as she was concerned, but she was afraid to ask any more questions, fearing another schizophrenic outburst. He, too, was afraid to say anything more. Part of him believed Debbie wouldn't lie and that part of him kept him quiet as they walked in silence back to the house. The other part, of him grew angrier at the thought of someone prying into his most private thoughts.
CHAPTER 19
Back at the NSF, Dr. Jerome looked at the brain tissue he had taken from O’Shaunnesey and adjusted the electron microscope to bring the sample into view for the third and last time that night. "Nothing!" he said to himself. "Everything still looks normal. Yet the chemical analysis said his heart attack was only symptomatic of a more critical problem in his brain. But I'll be damned if I can find it." Dr. Jerome put his hand to his temple and rubbed. His headache was throbbing and he was exhausted. He had practically lived in the lab since getting orders from Huxley to find the reason for his prize scientist's death. Not that working late was anything unusual for Jerome. He often didn't get home until late, but that was when he was working on something of his own choosing. Tonight was different, though, it was only seven thirty and he was too tired to go on. Working under pressure just wasn't his style.
"O’Shaunnesey was lucky to live as long as he did," Jerome grumbled to himself. "He had cirrhosis of the liver in addition to his weak heart," he continued as he re-read the autopsy report. "The bastard should have been dead years ago." Jerome cursed. He had hoped the brain tissue would be the key, but the longer he stared at the sample, the more normal it looked and the more it became obvious to him he was stumbling down another blind alley and that he would soon have to face Huxley again and ask for more time, a prospect which had all the appeal to him of a root canal.
"Damn it! The answer's got be here somewhere! But where?" In disgust he snapped the lab light off and left, but not before verbally adding his feelings for his boss. "Damn you, Huxley! Damn you!"
CHAPTER 20
Radcliff picked up the phone after only the first ring. For three days he had waited to hear from Walker only to be disappointed and each time the phone had rung and it was someone else on the line. This time he was prepared to be disappointed again, but the moment he heard Walker's voice, that feeling vanished and he eagerly said hello. He tried to hide his excitement, but he couldn't help himself. When Walker heard the enthusiasm in his boss's voice, it was obvious to him Radcliff was bubbling with anticipation.
"Walker here, sir," the agent began.
"What did you find out from Lassiter? Is there a messenger?" Radcliff queried rapidly.
"We have to meet. I have some good information. I'll tell you then," he said being purposefully blunt and evasive. In his many years working for the agency, he knew he couldn't trust the phone to be clean and anything he said he knew could be being recorded. He was surprised Radcliff was so forthright in using Lassiter's name. A senator should know better.
Radcliff sensed the urgency in Walker's voice and this time replied less directly taking the lead from Walker whose intonation made the senator realize his mistake. Even though his curiosity was getting the best of him and he wanted to blurt out the questions he held inside, he knew he'd best keep his comments to himself.
Choosing his words carefully, Radcliff asked, "where should we meet?"
"Steps of the Lincoln Memorial, in one hour and twenty minutes. I'll be waiting in a cab. Don't be late."
"Got it," Radcliff said just as the line went dead.
One hour and eighteen minutes later, Radcliff stood at the steps leading to the huge stone statue of Abraham Lincoln, manic depressive, freer of slaves and author of the Gettysburg address, that short speech which, although it stressed equality and strength of nation, also incited scores of antebellum Americans to curse his birth for wanting to change their proud Southern traditions. Radcliff looked up and gloated to himself, happy his plan to have the general followed paid off and that he had at last found out what Lassiter had been up to. He also found pleasure in the fact he'd finally outsmarted the bastard.
He gazed at the inscription at the base of the statue and smiled. He no more believed the words of the address than he believed men could fly by flapping their arms. In his mind, all men weren't created equal and he despised his fellow congressmen who thought they were and who, each session of Congress, used Lincoln's words to appeal their bleeding-heart liberal cases for increasing needless social programs at the expense of more vital issues: his issues. He also knew he was better than them--and than Lassiter. It seemed fitting that he would be getting the information he needed to seal Lassiter's fate at such an appropriate place. Although Lassiter was a soldier and he admired him for his distinguished military career, to him Lassiter was no better than the senators he despised. No, he was nothing more than another self-serving, power hungry leech on society and he was happy to be the one to put an end to his plans.
Radcliff smiled broadly when he spotted Walker in the cab and quickly left the steps of the monument to join him. They drove in silence for fifteen minutes, each fearing to speak with the cab driver no more than a foot away. When the cab was halfway across the Key Bridge, Walker tapped the driver on the shoulder and motioned for him to stop. Traffic that night was light and the driver immediately pulled the cab over to the right as he had been instructed, and both men got out.
The November air was chilly and still and as they stepped out onto the pavement. Their breath visibly steamed around their heads. Walker paid the driver and they stood there and waited until the cab was well out of sight before Radcliff spoke.
"So, Walker, was there a messenger?" he asked. "Did Lassiter lead you to a messenger? Is Kamarov coming to the U.S.?"
Walker nodded to all three questions thinking it comical that Radcliff seemed so eager. Then he gave him the details. "I followed him and he led me to a Sergeant Hatchett. Hatchett was to be to man Lassiter was going to use to get Kamarov when he came over."
"How do you know for sure?" Radcliff asked, pressing for more details. "And who's this Hatchett?"
"Hatchett w
as a friend of Lassiter's from the service," Walker responded.
"We had a file on him. As for how we know he was the one Lassiter was going to use to kidnap Kamarov, let's just say we convinced him to tell us." At this point Walker paused. He had said enough. He backed away and squared off to the Senator. This was his territory and he wanted to make that point known. "The less you know the better, senator,"
Walker replied not wanting to elaborate, knowing it would be better for the senator if something went wrong and somehow Hatchett's death was linked to Walker and he to the senator.
Radcliff correctly interpreted Walker's wanting to divulge no more, but still wasn't satisfied. "What else can you tell me?"
"We have the details of the security the State Department set up for the visit. Each member of the security team was hand-picked by Lassiter-how, we don't know--but I suspect one of his people set it up with the State Department to ensure his men were chosen. That isn't important, though. None of the men have been given their instructions yet. They were to be contacted by Sgt. Hatchett. None of the men knows each other either and none knows who their team leader is supposed to be. Lassiter had it all planned such that he'd be more or less isolated from the whole affair except for his link to Hatchett if anything went wrong. I suspect that Lassiter even planned to cut that link as well after Hatchett did what he was told to do."
Radcliff listened intently and then replied, "pretty damn smart."
"Yeah, he was smart, all right, but we're smarter." Walker stated.
Radcliff then put his hand on the agent's shoulder and looked directly into his eyes. "You know what to do with Lassiter!"
Walker nodded in agreement and then shook Radcliff's hand and replied. "Yes, sir, consider it done!"
Both men then turned and left, each taking a separate direction. The whole incident took less than three minutes, but in those three minutes, Radcliff had gotten all the information he needed. He only had a little less than forty-five days to stop this thing, to avoid having to murder Kamarov and with Lassiter out of the way he would breathe a little easier. He'd have to call Pat, though, now that he knew what he knew. It was time to bring him in on his plan and to see how far he had gotten on SIGMA ONE since the hearings. With that data in hand, Radcliff could plan how to deal with Kamarov. If Pat had made progress, all he would have to do is stall Kamarov on his visit and ensure he never got over the U.S. missile fields. Then he could use SIGMA ONE to his own benefit as Lassiter had planned to do. If Pat hadn't made progress, he'd have to kidnap him, and then he could let Pat either use him at the NSF, if he thought he could, or he could take the Russian before a closed Senate hearing and get Pat the funding he needed to do his own research without the Soviet's help.
As Walker reached the end of the bridge he turned and looked back at Radcliff. He had forgotten to tell him about Kuscov, the Soviet agent he had seen when he rescued Hatchett. It would be important for Radcliff to know the KGB now obviously knew of Lassiter's plan because he suspected they would now likely use diplomatic channels to change security measures for Kamarov's visit so they could be sure their own plans weren't compromised. However, they still didn't know we knew about their little launch surprise, but they'd be suspicious just the same now that they had the tape. Fortunately in his instructions to Rory, Lassiter had kept some of the details to himself and he didn't divulge the reason for the kidnapping on the tape. He also hadn't said what he would do with the Soviet after the kidnapping. Had that information been included, the Soviets would know everything and would insist on handling their own security, if they didn't cancel the trip altogether. If they did decide to bring Kamarov over, Walker was sure the State Department would yield to their insistence in good faith whether the Soviets told the state department about Lassiter's plan or not. Kamarov's visit was important to them as well. Either way, Walker knew that the KGB's knowledge was limited and Radcliff's plan wasn't in any immediate danger. To bother Radcliff now with his speculation would be premature at this time. He would have to wait and see what, if anything, the Soviets did in response to the information they had obtained before he moved. Then, and only then, could he rationally work out a counter plan with Radcliff. A phone call to his friends at the State Department would now be warranted, and Walker would just have to wait. Walker, his mind made up, turned and left, hailing down the first cab he could.
Walker didn't know it at the time but Kuscov and his partner were both killed in a fiery car crash the same afternoon they had made the attempt on Rory's life. When Walker found out about this the next day in a routine intelligence update, he was glad he hadn't turned around on the bridge and brought up their involvement to Radcliff. In the briefing he was told they had died only moments after attacking Hatchett and Walker assumed they hadn't had time to pass on what they knew. Of course, he was wrong about that and spent the rest of the morning getting his equipment together to deal with his other problem (Lassiter) rather than dwelling on their death and its possible implications that it wasn't a solution, but another potential problem.
Around noon time, Walker left his office and drove out to Dulles Airport where he would take care of Lassiter for good by sabotaging his plane. As he arrived he noted the parking lot was vacant and in no time found the aircraft he was searching for.
As he sat down to work on it he was feeling pretty pleased with himself and smiled as he molded the thin piece of plastique explosive around the fuel line of Lassiter's Citabria, the general's two-seater aerobatic propeller-driven airplane. As Walker attached the pressure sensitive detonator to the fire wall and inserted the nickel- cadmium battery, he stepped back and took one last look at the plane and chuckled to himself. He knew as soon as the plane reached seven thousand feet, the detonator would go off and cause the plastique to explode which would, in turn, rupture the fuel line and cause the engine to explode. The rest," he thought, "would be history." The beauty of his plan was that he wouldn't even have to be near when the general took off. It would all be handled automatically and would provide a fitting end to such a high-flying, no good son of a bitch. Walker was pleased with his himself for devising such a simplistic and appropriate method of killing Radcliff's enemy and couldn't wait to tell him.
CHAPTER 21
Burt sat alone in his dorm room staring out the window. He had been there for two days ever since he announced to Debbie after that faithful morning walk and his confrontation with her he needed to get away--that relaxing wasn't working, and that he had more than a few things on his mind he needed to straighten out. At first Debbie pleaded with him not to leave, but after considering the way he acted on the beach, she acquiesced and let him go. He wasn't acting normally and she, too, thought it best they be apart for a while.
That was forty-eight hours earlier, and during those two days, he hadn't eaten or slept. All he had been able to do was pace back and forth in front of his computer, afraid to turn it on, afraid to link, afraid of what would happen to him if he did. Yet, each time he passed it he desperately wanted to turn it on and free his mind. He wanted to feel the power surge he got when he established unity with the computer.
As he sat on his bed, he looked around at the destruction he had caused. All of his clothes were strewn on the floor around him. All his textbooks were piled in a heap in a corner of the room, and shreds of toilet paper were sprinkled on top of the entire mess like new fallen snow. Burt didn't remember what had set him off, but the evidence of his rage was all around him. The sight terrified him at first, and he didn't like the way he was feeling inside. He felt angry and mean, and although he knew he was changing, he was powerless to stop, powerless to control his emotions, so he simply let the anger and bitterness sweep over him and engulf him.
Just as Burt was about to hurl the chair he had picked up and held in his hand against the wall, he heard someone knocking at his door. The sound interrupted his rage, and momentarily he stood in the center of the room, chair in hand, stupefied and unable to move.
From the other sid
e of the door, Burt heard a female voice calling his name. The voice sounded sweet and pleasant, but unfamiliar. It wasn't Debbie. Her voice was lower, more sultry and not as fresh and innocent as the one he heard. As he continued to listen to the stranger repeat his name, his rage subsided and he put the chair down and went to answer the door.
"Mr. Burt Grayson, are you in there?" Amanda repeated standing outside. She had called the registrar the day before and had obtained Burt's dormitory address, and in fact, had come by earlier only to be told by whoever was in the room to go away and not bother coming back again. Because of the dangerous tone of voice emanating from the other side of the door she now stood in front of, she decided not to interrupt then but to come back later the next day.
When she was just ready to turn around and leave, hearing no answer to her repeated calls, the door opened and before her stood a young man who looked to be in his early twenties dressed only in his gym shorts and sweat shirt, and obviously in need of sleep judging from his disheveled hair and sunken eyes.
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