Plank Factor

by Debbi Mack

  “So, you work for the NSA?” she said.

  “Didn’t I just say that?”

  “No, you didn’t. And you haven’t told me who those people are who have my sister or where the hell we’re going or anything!” Alexis’ voice broke with frustration. “Please, just give me a straight answer.”

  “All right.” Alexis heard enough regret in Mel’s stoic tone to suggest he was sorry, even if he wouldn’t say the words. “Yes, I work at the NSA or Fort Meade, our latest euphemism. We intercepted your phone call. But someone must be telling the opposition. Somehow, they knew you’d be coming here and got to your sister before you did.”

  Alexis started to ask why he’d almost let her walk into a trap, but Mel held up a hand and continued talking.

  “We let you go up to your sister’s to keep from letting on that we knew.”

  “I see. So you let me almost walk into the arms of terrorists, just so your cover wouldn’t be blown? Nice.” Alexis hurled the last word out like a smash shot.

  “Put yourself in our shoes, Alexis. What purpose would it serve to blow the operation when we’re this close to catching these guys?”

  Alexis sighed. They turned onto a bridge and the silence between them was filled with the whine of tires on metal grating.

  Alexis found the noise hypnotic, as was the periodic whump, whump, whump as the car ran over connections between the grates.

  “So, what now?” she asked.

  “We have a mission.”

  Alexis snorted. “We? Since when did I join your merry band of spies?”

  “Let’s put it this way,” Mel said, raising his voice over the road noise. “Your sister’s in the hands of a group of terrorists, but apparently hasn’t told them anything. With any luck, they won’t torture her to find Daniel’s papers, with or without your help.”

  Alexis gasped. “Oh, my God.”

  “Don’t worry.” Mel dismissed the torture scenario a bit too fast for Alexis’ comfort. “Thing is, we could call in some heavy hitters with guns, but that could get ugly. We couldn’t guarantee your sister’s safety. You, on the other hand, could get to the papers without incident. Now, would you rather do that with or without our help?”

  “Well, obviously with it.” Alexis paused. “Not that I have much choice . . . .”

  Her words trailed off. The car hit the pavement again, plunging them into a thick, uncomfortable silence.

  “I guess we’re partners whether I like it or not,” Alexis said.

  Mel’s lips curled up in mild amusement. “You catch on fast.”

  Mel took Alexis to a small brick house in Queens. He grabbed her bag, hustled her through a gate in a waist-high chain link fence and into the cramped building.

  The living room had only a sofa, TV set, and freestanding lamp that looked like they’d been picked up at a rummage sale.

  “This is nice. Who’s your decorator?” Alexis said.

  Mel grunted. “Funny. They say laughter is the best medicine.”

  “I’d like to give you at taste of your own medicine,” Alexis muttered between clenched teeth. Mel either didn’t hear or chose to ignore her.

  He led her down a short hallway, past a couple of closed doors to a small bedroom. He flipped on the overhead light which revealed a single bed made up with sheets, pillow, and blanket.

  “Rest up,” he said. “We’ll talk about our strategy in the morning.”

  And with that, he shut the door. Alexis looked around the tiny room, feeling like a prisoner.

  Too weary to bother with pajamas, Alexis stripped to her undies and dived under the covers.

  It was approaching 2:30 A.M., when she woke as the doorknob turned with a metallic snick. Alexis froze, watched the door open, saw a slender, shadowy figure slip inside. The silhouette was barely visible, black against blacker. A slender person, not short and stocky like Mel. Alexis lay completely still and breathed evenly, as if she were asleep. A ball of anxiety formed in her belly, as she awaited the worst.

  Alexis could sense a person approaching, stealthy as a tiger. Squinting, she could make out this person’s silhouette beside her.

  She wondered how fast Mel would respond if she screamed.

  Then, a hand was laid, light as a feather on her head. The hand made slow sweeping strokes over her hair, giving her goosebumps. I know the feel of that hand! That clean smell.

  The hand slowed but didn’t leave her hair. “Alexis. I’m sorry,” a man said.

  That voice. Alexis sat bolt upright. It can’t be.

  “Turn on the light,” she said, her voice choked with emotion.

  The man walked over to the light switch and flipped it on to reveal the last person she ever expected to see.

  For a moment, Alexis didn’t know whether to scream, cry her eyes out, or simply run over and hug him as hard as she could. And in that moment--an eternity, really--she simply gaped at him, unable to speak.

  Finally, she got her bearings. Half convinced she was seeing a ghost, she uttered his name.

  “Daniel?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Jessica

  I stopped reading, leaned back in my chair, and sighed. If I couldn’t sleep, I was going to put all my nervous energy to good use.

  Unfortunately, this exercise had provided no ready answers to my situation. I rose and checked the drawers of a nightstand, where I found a pen and a hotel pad. Scribbling a note, I tore the page off, folded it, and tucked it in my jeans pocket. Doodling did nothing to relieve the stress. My obligations threatened to overwhelm me.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to tune out my thoughts. Focus on something else. Exhausted, I slouched in the chair, elbows perched on the armrests. I closed my eyes and tried to clear my mind.

  I must have drifted off because I was transported back to the university campus in Boulder. Fred and I were walking toward a large brick building, fronted with a line of trees. We were speaking of inconsequential things. Fred was smiling. As we approached the big brick building, a man emerged and moved toward us. As he grew closer, I recognized Selby. He waved and came up to talk to Fred. The building. What was it? It had a name. It was . . . .

  I jerked awake. Early morning light leaked through the blinds. I blinked several times, trying to think.

  “Ah . . . .” It was all I could manage to get out. Right on the tip of my tongue. Damn! What was the name?

  A rap at the door, then Liz’s voice. “Are you up, Jess?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I assured her. “Give me just a minute.”

  I snapped my fingers, as if the action could conjure up memories. “I know it. I know the place. What the hell is it?”

  A big brick building. And Selby was a scientist. It started with a P. No, no, not a P.

  Feeling frustrated, I tried not to think about it. It was the kind of information that would have to come to me in its own good time.

  I took a quick shower, pulled on my clothes, and stumbled downstairs, drawn by the rich, intoxicating aroma of coffee and the unmistakable sizzle of bacon on a grill. Imagine my dismay when I saw I’d be sharing my breakfast with George Clooney and his twin sister.

  I wandered into the breakfast nook where the twins sat at a table. George had just shoveled a forkful of eggs in his mouth when he saw me. His eyes lit up briefly in recognition, but quickly faded when I didn’t return the enthusiasm.

  “Good morning,” he ventured.

  “Yeah, hi.” I nodded to George and his twin (whose name remained a mystery). Pulling out a chair, I sank into it and went into what was becoming a most familiar posture—holding my head in my hands.

  “Are you okay?” I heard Liz ask from the kitchen, where I caught a glimpse of her working the pans on the stove with the speed of the Iron Chef.

  “I couldn’t sleep a wink.” I yawned and rubbed my face to accentuate the foggy mental conditions I was working under.

  “I’ll have eggs and bacon ready in a second.”

  “Coffee.” I dredged th
e word up and it hung in the air, like an unanswered question. I started to push myself up to retrieve a cup, only to feel a hand on my shoulder.

  George was by my side with a steaming mug of the brew. He set it on the table before me. “Voila.”

  For a moment, I was at a loss for words, looking into those gentle brown eyes. Finally, foggy mind and all, I remembered my manners and said, “Thank you.” Who would have thought I’d be thanking this man for anything?

  As we ate, George went over the plan. They’d take me back to Liz’s. After that, it was a simple matter of having their operative “drop the dime” on me, so to speak. By doing this, the operative should gain more of the group’s respect and trust. And my capture could be made “swift and painless,” as George had mentioned before.

  After that, I needed to dig for whatever information I could. “Focus on Selby’s role. Obviously, it was important. We need to know exactly what he was doing for them.”

  “If Selby was so important, then why did they kill Fred?” I asked. I was so fatigued, I thought I might be missing something.

  “We think Fred might have stumbled across something bigger.” George said. “He may have been doing research for your book but could have found out about other, bigger things.”

  I nodded and exhaled a shuddering sigh. “Great. I’m responsible for Fred’s death. That’s just what I need first thing in the morning.”

  George must have heard the despair in my voice. He leaned toward me. In a calm and deliberate tone, he said, “He chose to do what he did. He may have done it for you, but you didn’t force him.”

  I shrugged my acquiescence. Sure. That’s what I’ll tell myself.

  “How do you know Selby’s the key?”

  George started to speak, but nothing came out. “Sorry. Need to . . . .”

  “Yes, I get it!” I snapped. “Need to know only. Gee, where have I heard that before?”

  George stared at me, eyes intent with something approaching fear. My arms and neck broke out in gooseflesh.

  “Believe me,” he murmured. “You’re better off not knowing the possibilities.”

  I inhaled sharply, suddenly aware that I’d been holding my breath.

  “Shouldn’t I at least know who your operative is?” I asked. “So I can contact him.”

  “The operative will contact you,” George said. His look told me this was a non-negotiable point. “You can pool your notes and get a sense of what these folks are really up to.”

  “Do you think they’ll get suspicious and check me for a wire?” I asked.

  “Ah.” George held up a finger. “You’re wearing jeans. This should fit.”

  He produced a leather belt that was something less than Gucci, but could pass for high quality.

  “There’s a tracking device and transmitter here.” He showed me the unremarkable gray rectangle hidden behind the buckle. “All you do is pretend to adjust your belt and hit this tiny micro-switch.” He pointed at a small protuberance in the metal. “Want to practice?”

  I spent the next ten minutes, repeatedly adjusting the belt in a way that would hopefully look innocuous. The first couple of times seemed awkward, but with repetition, the move became easier.

  Meanwhile, George tested out the receiver from upstairs. “Loud and clear!” he announced, each time we ran the test.

  “Okay,” he said, upon his return. He looked almost proud of me. “You’re good. You’ll be fine.”

  “I guess I’d make a pretty good spy, huh?”

  George drew close and gave me a mock conspiratorial look. “They’re called agents, Mrs. Lambert.” He smiled to underscore the joke.

  I knew the line. Walter Matthau said it in Charade, a movie about a widow who blunders into a situation involving stolen money and a pack of rogues who are convinced she has it. Matthau played a fake U.S. intelligence agent who claims he needs her help.

  For the first time in I don’t know how long, I laughed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Jessica

  The plan was for me to return to Liz’s apartment by cab. As George and his nameless twin busied themselves preparing to leave, Liz drew me aside, out of their earshot.

  “Don’t worry. I have your back, too,” she murmured.

  “What do you mean?” I whispered, checking my belt buckle reflexively to make sure I hadn’t left the hidden listening device on.

  “I’ll keep the security detail in the wings. Just in case.”

  Just in case what? From what I’d seen of Cotter and his sidekick Billy, I wasn’t overly impressed. Cotter seemed capable enough, but Billy? I sincerely hoped the Feds would come through in an emergency, because I didn’t want to rely on the Abbott and Costello of security guard teams.

  “Could you do me favor?” I asked Liz, digging the note from my pocket. “If anything happens to me, please give this to Mom and Dad.”

  Liz opened her mouth but shut it fast.

  “Just put it in an envelope and mail it,” I said. “I know you and they . . . haven’t been close. But please . . . do this for me.”

  Liz nodded and took the note.

  Once I’d settled back into Liz’s condo, the next step was for me to go out in public. I grabbed my laptop, which a government agent had recovered from the hotel and obligingly delivered, and headed out to the nearest coffee shop. I found my way to Pennsylvania Avenue—D.C.’s version of Main Street as laid out by Pierre Charles L’Enfant. I thought of L’Enfant as I wandered into a coffee shop called Le Pain Quotidien.

  I grabbed a large coffee and a chocolate croissant. It was the least I could do for myself if I was going to be kidnapped.

  I took a table facing the big picture window. Peering out to the street, I saw no sign of my dynamic bodyguard duo. None that was obvious, anyway.

  I set up the laptop and opened the file I’d been working on in the wee hours. Did I want to continue the story or revise what I’d written? I’d been so busy thinking about my imminent capture that worrying about Alexis’ situation seemed almost ridiculous.

  Use it. The words floated through my mind. I was in her situation. (Well, except for her dead fiancé showing up, of course.) Who would understand better how she would react? So use it. Tuning out the chatter of customers around me, I plunged into reviewing the latest draft.

  Alexis

  Daniel gazed back at me, a weak smile on his lips and an apology in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry?” Alexis jumped out of bed and ran over to him, wrapping him in a hug that would make a python proud. She sobbed on his shoulder, heaving with relief and confusion.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you.” Daniel’s voice was choked, either from emotion or Alexis’ astonishing grip on him.

  Alexis let go, stepped back and looked at him. “All this time. All this time.” She shook her head, unable to go on.

  Once disengaged from her hug, Daniel took a deep breath. “They made me promise, Alexis.”

  “Who? The NSA?”

  He shook his head. “These guys were with Homeland Security.”

  “Jesus.” How many agencies were involved?

  Daniel drew Alexis to him once again, enveloping her in his arms. “God, how I wanted to tell you. After my accident, I woke up in a hospital bed. They had a guard outside my door, and a man came by to question me.”

  Daniel pulled back and looked into Alexis’s eyes. “He told me his name was Benson. Agent Benson showed me a badge and identification. Apparently, he’d been tailing me the night of the crash. Swede and I had both been under surveillance. I didn’t believe him at first. I might even have ignored him, if I hadn’t noticed he was carrying a gun.”

  He paused a moment, looking distracted, as if he might have forgotten to turn the stove off. Alexis knew that look. It was a habit that had once annoyed her, but now she ate it up with a spoon.

  “After the hospital released me, Benson took me to the federal building in Portland,” he continued. “I was in a room full of peopl
e from a whole alphabet soup of agencies. They’d known about the research Swede and I had been doing for a while.

  “But they’d always kept their distance. So the people who first contacted us weren’t with them. Apparently, we were right to be suspicious.”

  Alexis struggled to take this in from a man she thought had been dead. “So, those people who approached you before that . . . they were terrorists?”

  “I guess so. That’s what the Feds say anyhow.”

  “And how do we know these guys are the good guys?”

  Daniel threw up his hands. “Unless the terrorists have reserved a room in a federal building, I think it’s safe to assume we’re dealing with the real thing.”

  Alexis started to question what secret agenda the federal authorities might have and then thought better of it. Whatever their interest, it beats terrorism, right?

  “Two questions,” she said. “What on earth were you guys working on? And don’t be evasive. I have a right to know.”

  Daniel heaved a sigh. “Okay. Einstein’s theory is what we call a gauge theory--everything is described with reference to the speed of light, which is a universal constant that forms a framework for the theory. Magueijo’s approach removes the speed of light as a constant by making it variable, by making it less of a determinate certainty; and this produces a theory without a stable backdrop--a theory in which events define what space is like, instead of space determining what events happen within it. So our research is about bringing the variability or uncertainty of quantum mechanics into the all-encompassing and relative universe. Or you could say it’s about introducing the curvatures of relative space-time into the atomically flat dimensions of quantum mechanics.”

  Alexis shook her head and waved her hands. “Stop, stop, stop. In English, please. The Physics for Dummies version.”

  Daniel grinned. “Here’s the bottom line. This was never about building bigger bombs. Once the hydrogen bomb was invented, there was no limit to the size a hydrogen bomb could be. They can always be made bigger by using more material to feed the fusion reaction.