The Gemini Experiment

by Brian Pinkerton

  “Good,” said the voice. It sounded like Giamatti, which meant it was one of the members of the Russian spy ring. “I’m sending over The Cleaner. Be sure to open the gates for him. Direct him to the unwanted debris. He’ll take out the trash and make it disappear. He’ll use the chemical treatment.”

  Tom didn’t know exactly what ‘the chemical treatment’ referred to, but assumed it was a method to disintegrate corpses.

  “Yes, I’ll show The Cleaner where to go,” he said. Then he gambled on a question to gain some information from the other end.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “We’re getting ready for the rally,” said the voice. “All is good. The transition has been seamless. It couldn’t be better.”

  “That’s great,” Tom said.

  “After The Cleaner conducts his work, please send us a notification.”

  “Certainly.”

  The caller wrapped up the conversation and disconnected, apparently satisfied.

  Tom took a deep breath and looked at Steven. He told him about The Cleaner.

  “Oh great, an acid bath,” said Steven. “Let’s not stick around for that. Let’s go to the police.”

  “I’m a wanted man, I can’t go to the police,” Tom said. “The police won’t believe us anyway. This technology isn’t common knowledge. Can you imagine how we’ll sound? We’ll sound crazy. We need to go higher. We need to get to the president’s inner circle – they’ll know what we’re talking about. I have to get to that rally.”

  “At Navy Pier?” Steven asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How are you going to get there?”

  “Is your car here?”

  “Well – yes. It’s a rental. My Camry was stolen, you know.”

  “Where’s the rental?”

  “Parked behind the garage.”

  “Then you’re driving.”

  “Looking like this?”

  Tom studied Steven. He was crusted in blood, like someone who had just crawled out of an automobile wreck.

  “We’ll get you washed up,” said Tom. “We’ll wrap that wound. I have extra clothes in my room.”

  “Good. Thank you.”

  “But we’ll have to hurry,” Tom said. He was anxious to get Steven cleaned up before The Cleaner arrived with his own methods.

  * * *

  The bullet had torn a hole in Steven’s triceps, not lodging inside but creating a gory gash. Tom cleaned the wound with alcohol and wrapped him up with fresh gauze from a medicine cabinet. They scrubbed the blood off his face and traded his bloody clothes for a new shirt and pair of pants.

  As they hurried to the front door to make a swift exit, Steven noticed Tom was having a hard time keeping up.

  “Are you okay?” Steven asked.

  “Yes, fine,” Tom lied.

  They started to open the front door, caught a glimpse of a vehicle stopped at the front gate at the end of the driveway, and quickly shut the door again.

  “We have a visitor,” said Tom.

  He stepped across the foyer to a small security panel in the wall that displayed a camera feed from the gated entrance. The camera showed a branded van with a colorful, puffy-lettered logo: ‘Thomson Cleaning Company’.

  “It’s The Cleaner,” Tom said.

  “There’s a guy behind the wheel,” said Steven, studying the security feed. “He looks really, really big. What do we do?”

  Tom thought about it for a moment. “We let him in.”

  “Let him in?”

  “We open the gate. That’s what he’s expecting. We leave the front door unlocked for him. He enters. We slip out the back. The gate stays open and we have a clear path to get out of here.”

  “What if he sees us?”

  Tom lifted the gun he had taken from Cooper. It was the best answer he had.

  Steven nodded. He took in a deep breath. “Okay.”

  Tom said, “Ready?”

  “Sure,” said Steven, more weary than enthusiastic.

  Tom punched the green button that split open the iron gate. The cleaning van chugged forward, emitting a cough of exhaust.

  Tom and Steven hurried to the rear of the mansion and exited through a set of porch doors that led to Bella Giamatti’s Japanese garden. They stepped across a bed of stones, trampled colored moss, maneuvered around a small pond with goldfish and unlatched a door in the bamboo fence. Circling the perimeter of the estate, they were careful to avoid being visible from the front of the house.

  The Cleaner appeared pumped up on steroids – thick necked, muscular and mean faced. He rolled large barrels from the back of the truck into the mansion’s open entrance. Tom and Steven watched the activity from behind dense shrubbery. Once The Cleaner had completed moving the barrels, he closed up the truck and disappeared into the house to begin his work.

  Tom and Steven scurried for Steven’s car. They climbed in and Steven started up the engine with a quick crank of the key. The car took off, winding down the circular driveway and through the open gates.

  Tom clutched the gun, getting used to the feel of the cold steel. He glanced at the time on Steven’s dashboard and then stared ahead through the windshield at the changing scenery. “We should reach Navy Pier in less than an hour.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Navy Pier, a bustling summertime tourist and entertainment destination, took on an extra flurry of energy and excitement for the president’s appearance. The celebrated pier jutted more than two-thirds of a mile from the Lake Michigan shoreline, offering restaurants, museums, a theater, cruise ships and an iconic Ferris wheel before culminating in the majestic, domed Grand Ballroom with its panoramic view of the lake and city skyline. Added layers of security took over the Chicago attraction, restricting access to a narrow, highly controlled pathway to the campaign fundraiser. The gathered visitors looked nothing like the usual T-shirt, shorts and sandals crowd. They were dressed up in their finest for the horde of TV cameras and photographers. In the hot sunshine, men wore jackets and ties, and women wore long, elegant gowns and heels. They funneled through a colorful archway of red, white and blue balloons, prepared to show identification and confirm reservations that started at ten thousand dollars a plate.

  Navy Pier got its name from the pier’s role in serving the military in World Wars I and II. Over the years, visiting dignitaries ranged from US presidents to Queen Elizabeth II. This latest milestone in Navy Pier’s storied history promised to be an occasion to remember. President Hartel was riding a wave of popularity and expected to coast on a smooth ride to re-election for a second term. His donors arrived in a joyful mood on a picture-perfect day.

  Tom Nolan watched the flow of pedestrian traffic from a safe distance, standing casually behind a lamppost. He noted the ample presence of Chicago police officers, private security and Secret Service. Admission required a picture ID, reservations on a guest list, and a trip through a metal detector. The meticulous screening process caused the line of incoming guests to swell.

  Steven Morris stood next to Tom and asked, “How are you going to get in there?”

  Tom had a ready answer. “I have connections.” He took a cell phone out of his pocket – not his own. It was the phone belonging to his deceased robot replica, Alan/Alex. Tom accessed the number at the top of the Recent Calls list and dialed it with a poke of his thumb.

  After four rings, Simon Giamatti’s voice picked up – the same voice that had called earlier to announce the impending arrival of The Cleaner.

  “Yes? What is it?” said the voice, sounding distracted and impatient.

  “The Cleaner is at the mansion,” Tom said in his natural voice while remembering to mentally become his attacker.

  “Good. Excellent.”

  “I’m here at Navy Pier. I need to speak with you at once.”

  The vo
ice on the other end became startled. “You’re what? You’re here?”

  “Yes,” said Tom. “I’m at the entrance. I’m at visitor screening.”

  “What the hell are you doing here?” The voice was aggravated. “Stay where you are. Don’t move. I’ll send Alina for you.”

  Tom almost said, “Who’s Alina?” but quickly caught himself. He knew he should act as though he recognized the name. He simply responded, “Good. Thank you.”

  The call ended and Tom turned to Steven. “I’m going in. They still think I’m the other me.”

  Steven shook his head with a pained expression, conveying but not saying I can’t keep track of this.

  “They’ll get me inside,” Tom said. “Then I’m going to find the president’s advisers – the ones who know what’s going on. You stay here, don’t let them see you.”

  Tom juggled the cell phones in his grasp, replacing Alan’s with his own. “Give me your cell phone number, so we can stay in touch.”

  Steven recited his number and Tom entered it into his list of contacts. Then Steven said, “Tom, I’m sorry I got you involved in this. I never dreamed it would turn out this way.”

  “We’re going to fix this,” Tom said.

  “I’m here for you. Anything you need.…”

  “Stay available, but not too close,” said Tom. Then he took a deep breath and said, “Here goes nothing.”

  He gave his old friend a quick hug. Steven felt something in the embrace. “You have a.…”

  Tom nodded. He still had Cooper’s gun under his shirt, tucked tight, out of view.

  “Oh, Jesus,” said Steven. “Be careful.”

  Tom turned and headed for the fundraiser entrance.

  He stayed off to the side, trying not to draw attention to himself, avoiding being swept into the excited line of guests that advanced toward security clearance.

  “There you are!”

  Tom swiveled and saw Bella Giamatti coming at him, her shapely body draped in a beautiful, formfitting green dress. For a moment, it felt like she was the real thing, in voice and appearance, but Tom quickly corrected his instincts.

  This must be Alina.

  “Hello,” Tom said casually. While she had a soft face, her eyes blazed hard at him.

  She stepped very close and spoke in a low, intimate voice. “Yefim is angry. You never should have come here. Are you crazy? You’re a wanted face. You should be back at the mansion.”

  “I have important things to talk about.”

  “Not here.” Alina skipped a quick glance across their surroundings, lips pursed with frustration. “I’ll take you in. We’ll find a private room. Do not mingle. Just follow me.”

  “Yes,” said Tom. “Of course.”

  She grabbed Tom’s hand, smiled with phony affection, and led him to the security entrance.

  Tom’s heart began to pound. He lowered his face, pretending to be distracted by sights and sounds in the other direction.

  “It’s okay,” Alina announced to the personnel at the security table, circumventing the long line. “He’s with me. He doesn’t need to go through security.”

  The trio at the check-in table responded to her with eager smiles and gracious permission.

  “Of course, Mrs. Giamatti.”

  “Absolutely, Mrs. Giamatti.”

  “Go right in.”

  Tom bit his lip to prevent breaking out in a smile. The woman had major league clout and her relationship with the president was well known. Entry was a breeze.

  Alina guided Tom past multiple security checkpoints and led him into a private entrance not far from the domed Grand Ballroom. She pushed through a door marked ‘Events Office’.

  Inside the office, a small group of people converged at a meeting table while a thin, older woman worked on a laptop. Alina gestured Tom into a corner.

  “You really shouldn’t be here,” she said in a harsh whisper. “We’ll have to keep you hidden. Now what’s the trouble?”

  “The trouble.…” Tom hesitated, not having prepared this far. All his focus had been on just getting in. “Yes, the trouble. Back at the mansion. I think that…there’s a security risk. I believe…there might be cameras still in operation.”

  “We disengaged them.”

  “But maybe not all.”

  Simon Giamatti entered the room. He was stuffed into a black tuxedo, face pinched in an unpleasant expression Tom had not seen on him before. Tom felt a quick shudder. This must be Yefim.

  “What’s the problem here?” Giamatti said, moving with swift ease, not bothering to fake the limp.

  “He says there’s security trouble at the mansion,” said Alina as Bella Giamatti.

  “Security trouble?” said Yefim as Simon Giamatti. Then his cell phone chirped in the pocket of his tuxedo. He pulled it out, stared at it for a second and muttered, “The Cleaner.”

  Tom’s heart skipped a beat. He watched as the fake Giamatti accepted the call and listened to a long statement on the other end.

  Tom knew it wasn’t good. The fake Giamatti’s eyes narrowed. Finally, he said, “I see.” He looked up at Tom. “I’ll take care of it,” he said, and he hung up.

  He addressed Tom. “The Cleaner has made an interesting discovery in the kitchen.”

  Tom knew exactly where this was going. He tried to twist the narrative. “Yes,” he said. “I killed Tom Nolan in the kitchen. I stuck a fork in his eye. For fun.…”

  Neither one of the Giamattis looked convinced.

  Then Bella Giamatti asked Tom a question in a low voice that the event staff on the other side of the room could not hear.

  The question was in Russian.

  Tom felt a chilled sweat on his scalp. He nodded, as if understanding. He spoke the only Russian word he knew.

  “Da.”

  The expressions he received from them indicated it was not an acceptable – or even coherent – response.

  Bella Giamatti spoke more Russian at him. It was strange to hear fluent Russian coming out of her mouth in her soft, familiar American voice. As part of their efforts to work effectively undercover, the spies had perfected American accents and rarely spoke in their native language while on US soil.

  Now both of them were speaking to Tom in deliberately thick Russian, expecting a response.

  “Da,” said Tom again. “Da.”

  He knew this was going very badly, and he was failing the test.

  Finally, he spoke the only other language he knew – Spanish.

  “Adios,” he said.

  He punched Giamatti in the face, hurting his hand but startling his target. Bella Giamatti came at him and he punched her too, regretting that he was hitting such a soft, pretty face, feeling like a bully, but the punch probably hurt him more than her. She barely flinched.

  Others in the room took notice of the assault, shocked. “Hey!” shouted someone from the nearby meeting table.

  Tom took off, slipping away from the Giamattis. He tossed chairs behind him in a crashing tangle to block their path. He could hear noisy commotion in his wake but did not look back.

  Tom stumbled into a long corridor and continued to scramble as fast as he could, fighting back the aches and awkward, stiff legs. He had several doors to choose from and picked one at random. It led into a crowded lobby outside of the Grand Ballroom.

  Tom moved across the lobby in a zigzag. He followed a group of lively, loud-talking supporters to the nearest ballroom entrance. He advanced with them inside, experiencing a burst of sights and sounds. The circular, cavernous event space was packed with people, a thousand or more, filling the gaps between dozens of white-linen tables that faced the elevated stage. Each table was decorated with crystal glasses, fanned-out napkins, china plates and shining silver. Big floor-to-ceiling windows admitted bright sunshine, forming a wide arc of light
around the ballroom’s perimeter. A cacophony of voices echoed off the domed ceiling. In a far corner, a jazz ensemble played chipper background music that could barely be heard over the layers of conversation.

  Tom lost himself in the crowd, burying himself deep, becoming just another donor at the big-ticket event.

  As Tom wormed his way through the crowd, he found a familiar face – a valuable face – engaged in a smiling conversation with a group of people off to the side.

  It was Jarret Spero, the president’s chief of staff.

  Tom wanted to rush him and shout out a warning, but it looked unlikely he could get close to such a prominent political figure – and if he did, security would surely pounce.

  Tom blended into a back wall, where a growing crowd gathered to browse a long table of ‘Silent Auction’ items to raise campaign money. Tom kept his head lowered and looked absorbed in the many offerings, giving himself a temporary activity to engage in so he could avoid looking suspicious. Some of the auction items were placed on display, like autographed sports memorabilia – baseball bats, football jerseys and basketballs signed by big-name stars. Other offerings were simply described in colorful summaries encased in clear plastic stands, such as a personal photo op with the president, starting at a mere fifty thousand dollars. Other significant draws, based on the volume of bids, consisted of a private dinner cooked by a celebrity chef; a one-week African safari; an intimate concert from an aging classic rock band; and original paintings by well-known artists.

  Tom didn’t care about these extravagant expenditures for the wealthy. His interest was much simpler: a pen and paper.

  Tom found an item with only a few bids and tore off the bottom half of the sheet without disturbing any names. He snatched one of the fancy VOTE HARTEL pens and swiftly moved to the far end of the auction table. He found a clear surface and carefully wrote out a message in his uneven handwriting:

  I need to talk to you about the Gemini Experiment.

  As he folded the message for delivery, a loud, smooth voice sounded over the speakers, immediately hushing the crowd: