The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy

by David Bischoff

  Come on, he thought, gazing up at the revolving door. Hurry up., you assholes.

  A sudden thought struck him, making him squirm. What if they were all having one of their goddamned eternal editorial meetings? But no, probably not ... Most likely, since the news as to Cindy’s identity had hit the papers late, they were undoubtedly pretty upset.

  “Come on, folks,” whispered Scarborough through gritted teeth. “Come out and get one of your three-martini sushi lunches!”

  He had bought some scissors at an all-night drug store and lopped off the rest of his dyed curls. He hadn’t shaved and a heavy growth of beard now coated his cheeks and chin and neck. He wore his glasses, so he didn’t look like the pictures they had of him. He’d lost a lot of weight, too; and without his usual tailoring (and of course, with the other significant cosmetic changes), he figured he was safe enough out in the open. He didn’t think anyone would recognize him and tum him in.

  “Scarborough. Hey, Scarborough!”

  Never before had the sound of his own name alarmed him so much. And close ... so close. He spun about, prepared to either launch himself at an attacker, or sprint away.

  When he turned, he saw the abrupt sight of a slender man in a jacket and a Hawaiian shirt coming his way. The man slid onto the bench, sidling up next to him. “Thank God I caught you here. I figured there was a good chance you’d come here.”

  Scarborough blinked, aghast, and yet relieved at the same time. “Camden! What are you doing in New York?”

  “I could ask you the exact same thing, pal. But me? I’m on assignment from the Intruder.”

  “Go. Leave. I’ve got something to do here. Something very important.” He tried not to sound desperate, but he was all too aware of the way his voice husked.

  Camden gave him a disappointed look. “Evvie, Evvie. This isn’t too smart, chum.” He looked around, chewing on some gum, gazing out at the people walking up Broadway. “Someone could see you here, out in the open. I’m just glad I caught you before you went into Quigley. I read the article in today’s paper, man. Pretty sad stuff. The editor of yours ... she was one of them, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, all this makes for a juicier story, I suppose, but you’re going to do neither me nor yourself any good by hanging around Quigley Publishing.”

  “One of them will tell me ... Who knows. Montcalm. Tarrants. They can tell me where Diane is ... They can tell me who these Editor and Publishers are.”

  “Don’t bet on it, chum. Look, I feel a bit ... exposed out here. I know a nice dark place a few blocks away where we can have this discussion in private. What do you say?”

  “Just go, Camden. This is something I’ve got to do.”

  “Look, Scarborough. I’d hoped you’d be cool, but you clearly aren’t. Chill out. Okay, so this Cindy Editrix was One of them. In that case, she was planted. No way could Quigley Publishing be owned by the government or any shady subsidiary. Think, pal. It’s part of a gigantic corporation. Some huge German company, right? These guys could buy the government! “

  “Maybe they did.” But Camden was right.

  “Uh-uh. These folks are out to make money. It’s called ‘business.’ Now, I realize we’re getting a tad paranoid, but don’t you think we should at least have a little lunch before you start shooting up Broadway?”

  Scarborough thought about this a moment. He wasn’t so sure, but Camden had actually introduced a thought that had to be counted as a logical possibility. Quigley could be innocent of these particular operations, using him. Cindy and the Editors/ Publishers could have simply used Quigley just as they used him.

  “But if I can just talk to one of them for a moment,” said Scarborough, feeling the shaking doubt in his own voice beneath the frayed determination.

  “Please! Look, I’m begging you. At least give it some thought? You’re wound so tight you look like you’re about to break. C’mon, catch these guys coming back from lunch.”

  Scarborough’s pride hated to admit it, but Camden was right. There was the possibility that his brain was a touch addled from all the drama last night, his lack of sleep, his feelings of desperation concerning Diane, concerning his whole life. Give it a couple hours, he thought. Give yourself a chance to get a grip.

  “Okay,” he said, taking his hand out of his jacket pocket.

  “Good. So what have you got in there?” Camden craned to check, and caught the form of the gun. He gave a David Letterman grimace. “Yo, Dirty Harry. Don’t you think that your heat there’s a little bulky? It’s broadcasting at about 50,000 watts!”

  Scarborough looked down. Camden was right again.

  Christ, what could he have been thinking about? What was wrong with him? What was going on inside of his formerly precise and ordered brain?

  Quietly, he took off the jacket, tucked it into a discreet ball in such a way as to hide the unsightly outline of the automatic weapon.

  “All right!” said Camden, looking around as though catching a bit of Scarborough’s paranoia. “We’re outta here!”

  If New York City is surely a place to drive its residents and visitors to drink, then it obligingly provides them with numerous watering facilities. Frank Sinatra sings of waking up in a city that never sleeps. He perhaps should also have mentioned the difficulties of drying out in a city whose bars never close. Licensing hours in Manhattan run from 6:30 in the morning until 4:00 the following morning; and if you’re still feeling sociable at last-call, you might wobble over to one of the illegal drinking establishments, often as not run by Irishmen.

  Most visitors to the Big Apple—and indeed, .most of its well-to-do inhabitants—drink at the pricey, trendy bars such as Elaine’s and the 21 Club. But if you want to get the real flavor of the area and haven’t got four dollars for a martini or five for good spirits, there are always the Irish working-class bars. Camden had found them on his very first trip to New York. They were places like the Blarney Stone or the Blarney Rock or McAnn’s—plain, big places that have probably sold more drinks over the years than McDonald’s has hamburgers.

  Camden and Scarborough sat in one of these Irish bars now; huddled together in a booth in the far reaches of the dining room. They’d found the dim space just before the lunch crowd started coming in, and Scarborough had to admit that it was a good idea coming here. The likelihood of being noticed in a place like this was close to nil. And besides, a big red exit sign shone just in a hallway just a few feet distant. A way to get out, quick, if necessary.

  The Harp was typical of the Irish workingman’s bar. It consisted of a creaky wooden room with a long, ancient bar running down one side, stocked with a plethora of bottles capped with bright metal spouts. Shot prices were bannered from small signs in magic-marker script. For instance, the special today was a shot of Old Crow for just a dollar and ten cents. Other shots, however, were not a whole lot more, and as Camden had rapidly learned, at these sort of places the shots were generous.

  Besides drinks there was the steam table, where you could get a good corned beef sandwich with a side of cabbage, or a roast beef platter with potatoes and two vegetables for not much more. Wisps of steam rose up past the rosy-cheeked face of the middle-aged man cutting sandwiches now, as he probably had been for years and years. The place smelled of spilled beer and old food, but it was an honest, homey smell, like granddad’s boots.

  When Camden brought back his shot of Johnnie Walker Red and a big frothy pint of draught Guinness from the bar, Scarborough had hardly touched the mug of New Amsterdam Amber that Camden had brought to him first.

  “Hey—have a couple of sips at least. It’ll take that metal rod out of your spine!”

  Scarborough sipped tentatively. The beer was cold and good, with a hoppy, grassy taste similar to the stuff you get from the microbreweries, only not so pronounced.

  “Good stuff,” said Camden. “Made right here in the city. They even have brewery tours. Drink up. Hell of a lot better than a Valium. Of course, if I’d had on
e of those, I would have jammed it down your throat back there. Cripes, you want to get yourself nabbed—or worse, killed?”

  Scarborough turned and looked around nervously. They were well back, though, from the rest of the half-full crowd, and the babble of conversation overlapped the bump and flow of jukebox music. Satisfied that they weren’t being overheard, he turned back to Camden. “You don’t know what I’ve been through.”

  “I can guess. So drink up, I’m telling you. The number one cure for tension is alcohol!”

  “Haven’t had any of this stuff since Vegas. No—before. Maybe I’m afraid if I start, I’ll never stop.”

  Camden sipped his beer, letting his shot sit. “A couple beers won’t hurt. Look at me now. I’m not going to drink this whiskey here until I have something on my stomach. So what gives?”

  Scarborough took another sip. Camden was right. This was relaxing him. “Jesus, I’m a mess,” he said. “Thanks for heading me off at the pass, Jake. You’re probably right.” He relayed in detail his meeting with his editor, and his resultant discordant feelings and distrust of people. “Who would have thought, Jake, that you’re one of the few people I trust now.”

  Camden whistled lowly. “Rough stuff. I’m sorry. It’ll all come out for the best—we’ll find Diane. Meantime, catch me up. I take it you drove all the way out here.”

  “Yeah. Parked on the West Side of Manhattan. I’ve been trying to call you, Jake.”

  “Well, you’ve got me now.”

  Scarborough outlined the trip across the country.

  “Fine,” Camden agreed. “I’ll check in with Marsha. She’ll keep us in contact from now on. I’ll be a faithful correspondent. What say we get something to eat now?”

  Jake got a meat-loaf sandwich. Everett took the corned beef on rye, with a side of chips. Camden had been right. It did make him feel better. He had another beer as well, and it did the trick. He actually was starting to feel better again.

  “The thing that’s got me flummoxed is the guy who hurried you out of the subway,” said Camden, after putting away his shot. “You sure you weren’t hallucinating?”

  “No. And I’d noticed him, before. He was with another guy before. These two guys are following me, Jake. Remember how I couldn’t figure how I’d nailed that CIA guy—well, I think maybe I didn’t. I think one of my guardian angels did.”

  “It doesn’t figure. They sound like agency people. They sound like pros all right, though. What do you think? Warring factions? Maybe guys from the NSA, you think? Foreign agents? Cripes, could be several possibilities and none of them pan out.”

  Nonetheless, Scarborough noted that Camden had a slight smile on his face. This clearly was getting to be a better and better story, and the bastard was actually enjoying himself at Scarborough’s expense. No, no, thought Scarborough. Mustn’t get myself worked up and paranoid. Whatever else may be going on, Jake Camden had proved to be a valuable and trustworthy ally.

  “That’s why I need this information. I mean, what do we have? Some kind of conspiracy, sure—but why? What are they hiding—and who are they, exactly. I mean, we know they have government links—but there’s more. I feel it in my gut.”

  “Dr. Everett Scarborough, getting hunches. Is Mr. Logical perhaps becoming clairvoyant?”

  “Don’t laugh. Some strange things have been happening.”

  “Okay, let’s put the facts together ... I mean, the ones we have, anyway.” Camden ticked them off one by one with his fingers. “Project Blue Book was a cover-up. Your daughter and her boyfriend were kidnapped by whoever perpetrated that cover-up. The cover-up appears to include a good deal of false UFO sightings strewn among the genuine—as well as falsified info concerning document evidence.”

  “Disinformation.”

  “Yeah. Anyway, not only were you a prime scientific patsy for those years you worked on Project Blue Book, but they stood you up as an anti-UFO skeptic, helping you forge a career that brought fame and fortune. Again, a variation on a theme. Question is why didn’t they just buy you off?”

  Scarborough glared at him. “Maybe some people can’t be bought off.”

  “Okay, okay. Maybe you need another beer. We’re just trying to look at the facts and speculating.” Jake drank another finger’s worth of liquor. “They’re so worried about MacKenzie’s full Blue Book files and other research, they torch it. And kill him when he barges in. Nice guy, too. I liked him.”

  “Yes.” Scarborough looked down at his mug, touched by grief again. “He was the best.” Maybe he did need another beer.

  “Okay, they know you’re onto them—and thank God they don’t seem to have glommed onto my activities—and so they try and kill you. Doesn’t work. So off we go on a merry chase. Fugitive time, only you’re chasing ghosts, not a one-armed man.”

  “There’s something you’ve left out.”

  “Hey, hey. There’s my man. You’re not going bug-fuck after all. You care to iterate said ‘something.’ “

  “That farm. Those abandoned farm buildings looked as though they used to house some kind of scientific testing sight or something.”

  “Dead on, Evvie. That’s the stick they got stuck up their behind. Everything started happening after that. That caretaker—the more I think about him, the more I think, used-up spook. They stuck him there to guard the place. What else could it be?”

  “Yes, but what could they have been using it for. I’ve been racking my brains, trying to come up with that answer. I even thought about stopping back in Iowa ...”

  “Wrong. You don’t blow up the same bull’s ass twice.”

  “I didn’t, of course. But I thought about it. Are they hiding some kind of special scientific project, I thought. But what could that have to do with this campaign of disinformation? It just doesn’t make sense. There are too many pieces missing.”

  “You didn’t have much to do with this Colonel Dolan fellow and what’s-his-name, the guy Marsha mentioned to you who was yakking about the Publishers and Editors. Oh yeah, Richards. Brian Richards.”

  “I did not know the man. My sole contact with the military establishment was Colonel Dolan. I worked with some people in other departments for research, but that’s all that was—research, Camden—I was just a writer ... a citizen ... My days inside the military—such as they were, ended twenty years ago. I simply wrote and talked and played the media personality—and that’s all they wanted from me. God, what a fool I was. Camden, the more I think about Cindy, the more I think about the whole thing, the more violated I feel, the more incensed, that these bastards have irreconcilably pissed upon my rights as a citizen—to say nothing of everything that this country stands for.”

  “Quick. Drink the rest of this beer. We really can’t afford a scene here, Scarborough.”

  Scarborough took in a deep breath, exhaled. “Sorry.”

  “So, what it all comes down to is what were these people doing in those labs on the farm? Apparently, it’s been going on for a while. For one thing, it seems they were faking UFO reports. Disinformation. Both you and I know the standard, saucerite-paranoid rap on that line.”

  Scarborough sighed. “Yes. Disinformation to cover up actual contact with saucers. By the government. Lunacy! Did you read that article in UFO Universe, the one that came out just before all this started? The one with that fellow claiming the government made some kind of deal with aliens, trading rocket secrets for rights to experiment with U.S. citizens? Even with all that’s happened I’m still very far from buying that line. No, what we have here is your run-of-the-mill government cover-up. We’re not getting into aliens yet.”

  “Not even those guys who are following you.”

  “They look normal enough to me. Maybe they’re members of some other counterintelligence agency ...”

  “Look, let’s get back to that lab. Seems to me that you’ve been through far too much to put down paranoid ideas. Stretch your thoughts a little—”

  “They’ve been stretched. You think th
at these people aren’t just faking alien saucers. They’ve been faking alien abductions. Budd Hopkins stuff—Strieber—Schroeder.”

  Camden cleared his throat, looking a little uncomfortable. “Yes. That just what I mean.”

  “Okay. But why?”

  “That’s what we’ve got to find out, buddy. Whatever it is, it’s outrageous from the word ‘go’! No wonder they’ve been bending over backwards so suddenly to discredit you. They know that if somebody legit comes out with the facts, the idea that a government-associated group—I don’t care if they’re the CIA or the White House janitors—are kidnapping people, fooling with their minds ... Well, that’s going to create a colossal stink, to say the very least. Who knows what high mucky-muck heads will fall? Sheesh, maybe the whole government! “

  “Let’s not take it too far, Camden.”

  “I’m serious. And Scarborough, if we can find out what’s going on—get the proof ... Hell, just the alleged truth is enough—this will be your salvation and probably Diane and Tim’s as well.”

  “I’m not quite sure I follow.”

  “The Power of the Press, man! You will be vindicated, and these guys won’t be able to touch you. Maybe that’s what these guys who are following you are working on ... Yeah, maybe they’re discontented spooks, trying to foul up these cancerous goings-on, trying to do the right thing without giving their identities. What do you think?”

  Scarborough grunted. “I like that a whole lot better than the aliens stuff.”

  “Okay. So that leaves us a good deal ahead of where we were before. Certainly better than having you accost a poor bookish executive with an automatic weapon!” Camden finished his beer and stared back at the bar thoughtfully. “You know, all this talking is really making the old brain work.”