The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy

by David Bischoff

  “Well, yeah—a real letter-hack. Writes to all the publications. I’ve used plenty of his letters in my column. Mashkin. Yeah. Walter Mashkin. From Albuquerque, New Mexico!”

  “Jake, I hate to say this, but you’re proving to be absolutely invaluable.”

  “Told you!”

  “You go out and buy yourself one on me, Jake Camden. We’ll keep in contact through Marsha, but don’t be surprised if you hear from me this weekend with arrangements to meet you in New Mexico. I’ve got a real good feeling about this, Jake. I really think Diane’s there in the government facility—either that, or in a secret installation not far away, one that these Editors and Publishers use for their experimental operations.”

  “Sheesh. Hotter and hotter. What a fucking great story!”

  After hanging up, Scarborough went back to the bar and ordered a shot of Jack Daniel’s whiskey. He carried it back to the pay phone, lifted it up and saluted the air.

  “To you, Mac.”

  He drank the whiskey, and then he dialed Directory Service for New Mexico.

  Chapter 19

  When Camden saw Joseph Donohue, the resident counsel for the Intruder, waiting for him in Kozlowski’s office, he knew there was trouble.

  “Hey, Joe! Que pasa! How’s the wife and kids and the barbecue?” He kept up the breezy attitude as he strolled along the plush carpet and plopped down confidently into the chair in front of the desk, putting a leg up on one knee and putting his hands behind his head.

  There was trouble, yes. Exactly what kind of trouble, he couldn’t say, but with lawyers, it was best to strike a confident pose, or they’d tear you apart with the flick of a phrase.

  “Jake,” said Donohue, nodded in his armchair and then turned to look at Kozlowski. “Shall I tell him, Mr. K., or do you want the honors?”

  Kozlowski’s cigar was dead in the ashtray, which was a bad sign. He just grunted and looked down at his nails.

  Taking the signal from his employer, Donohue turned to Camden and fixed him with an authoritative look. “Jake, it’s about the first part of your journalistic effort concerning Dr. Everett Scarborough.”

  Camden could see a marked-up copy of the eight-page first installment in front of Kozlowski. Another one was held in a Gucci leather business folder on the desk by Donohue.

  It was Monday afternoon.

  “What, I accidentally slander somebody? It’s good though, huh? Really good?”

  “Fucking best piece I’ve read in a long time,” Kozlowski muttered, not looking at Jake.

  Camden smiled. Maybe this wasn’t so bad after all. The old man was just floored, that’s all. He’d showed him, and Kozlowski was just stunned that he had such a good reporter.

  “Yes, it is well written, Jake,” said Donohue. “However, Mr. Kozlowski asked me to examine it for potential problems, and I found a couple. Significant problems, Jake. Problems that we’re going to have to discuss in some depth.”

  Donohue was a heavyset man in his early forties with an overly manicured look that fit as snugly around him as the three-piece grey pinstriped suits he favored. His face and hands had a well-fed sleekness to their even tan that looked healthy in a sharkish kind of way. He had a big nose and a receding hairline, which made his narrow eyes look even more deeply receded and beady than they actually were. He was the kind of lawyer, Jake Camden knew, who had tied Florida down in the last twenty years of her incredible real estate and environmental rape that John D. MacDonald wrote about so well. He’d gotten into legal trouble a few years ago and had to make a career switch and that was how Kozlowski had gotten him. He was the kind of lawyer who cost you a bundle on either side of a consulting table or judge’s bench, and Jake supposed Donohue must be good, for Kozlowski to want him full-time. Privately, though, Camden always despised the man.

  “Okay, no problem. We just change a few names to protect the innocent. Maybe I got too many facts in there. Change it however way you want to, guys. It’s your piece now, right?”

  This was actually what he had counted on, Kozlowski rewriting the article, though he didn’t expect Donohue to get in on the act. Didn’t make any difference, because this way he just didn’t have to write another article when he showed the New York Times the story.

  “No, that’s not what we’re talking about, Jake,” said Kozlowski. “We’re just not going to be able to run the story, period.”

  “Huh?” Jake blinked, surprised but not quite knowing what to make of this announcement.

  “The really big problem, Jake,” said Donohue, “is that this article reveals the fact that you have aided and abetted a criminal wanted by the FBI. As an employee of the Intruder, this explicit admission could possibly endanger our legal standing.”

  “What? That’s hogwash! I’m a reporter! I’m on a story! Reporters talk to criminals all the time.”

  “You’re withholding information which could lead to this man’s arrest, Camden. This is against the law. The Intruder cannot condone this activity, implicitly or explicitly.”

  Jake looked pleadingly at Kozlowski. “What’s going on here? You loved the story, before and after you read it!”

  “Sorry, Jake. I gotta go by what Joe says. He’s my lawyer, and I gotta trust him on this.”

  Camden shook his head. “I can’t believe it. You’re not even going to get a second legal opinion?”

  “I can show you the laws involved if you like, Jake,” said Donohue stiffly.

  “The wrath of Hollywood stars and crackpots we can hazard,” sighed Kozlowski. “But after thinking about it some, I just can’t fuck with the U.S. government. Especially the boys

  that get to tote the guns.”

  Jake suddenly realized why. Kozlowski’s past—he probably had to keep his nose extremely clean. Still, actually, come to think of it, this wasn’t that bad. He was confident that the New York Times or the Washington Post would print the story. And this way, he wouldn’t have to go against Scarborough and squawk the story before things worked themselves out.

  He wouldn’t have to go against Scarborough’s wishes, and Camden actually felt pleased at that. He liked the guy, and the last thing he wanted to do was to screw him over.

  “I’m very disappointed,” said Camden. “But of course I understand.” He reached over and tapped the article. “Pretty hard-hitting stuff, this, and more to follow. Tiger by the tail, huh, chief. Well, that’s okay, as long as the check clears.”

  Kozlowski scratched his nose. “It won’t. We put a cancel on it, Jake. It’s a damned good story, but we can’t pay for what we can’t use.”

  Camden’s jaw dropped. “What?”

  “That’s correct, Camden,” Donohue said officiously. “I called the bank myself.”

  Camden stood up and poked a finger at his boss. “You promised!”

  “I promised money for something that would up circulation. Since we’re not using it, it won’t up circulation. So, find us another hot story.”

  Camden could barely speak. He felt as though a giant had taken the sides of his chest between massive fingers and was now squeezing. Oh fuck! he thought. Plentenos! I won’t have the money for that bloodsucking Cuban! He’ll kill me!

  “But boss, I have obligations to meet! You know I’m in a jam.”

  “Yes. But I think the next part of what we have to tell you is going to solve that, Jake. And of course, it’s not like you’re being fired. You’ll still be on payroll.”

  Camden blinked. What was the old guy talking about?

  “Next part? What next part? I don’t understand.”

  “Joe, you better break it to him. You’re the one who made the call.”

  Donohue stiffened in his chair, as though bracing himself. “Camden, I was extremely alarmed at some of the material in this article. I, for one, don’t believe the story you tell. Not for a moment. And since, in reading it, I, too, became privileged with the knowledge that you are aware of the whereabouts of this sought-after killer, Everett Scarborough, I took it upon m
yself to call up the closest office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. They’re sending a man over later this afternoon to ask you the necessary questions.”

  Camden couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You what? You mean to tell me, you sicced the Feds on me, you scummy bastard!” He swiveled to Kozlowski. “How could you allow him to do this! They’re going to haul me away!”

  Kozlowski shrugged. “So you’ll be safe from your drug lord or whatever. I’m doing you a favor here, Jake. You’ll thank me later.

  “I didn’t call the Feds, Jake. That rabbit was out of the hat. But as long as they’re coming, you might as well answer their questions.”

  “Don’t you see, I can’t do it? I have a man depending on me! Didn’t you read that piece? Can’t you see that I’ve made a commitment? Can’t you see how important this is?”

  “C’mon Jake. I know what’s important to you. Money, booze, and women. Don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes; you’re not really choked up over this guy. You’re in it for yourself. Look, maybe you can sell your story somewhere else. It’s just too much of a risk for us here. And Jake—take my word, it’s really for your best interests to cooperate with the authorities.

  “Well, I won’t!” Camden stalked out the door.

  “Jake. Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

  Typewriters stopped in the main editorial room. Heads swiveled.

  “I’m getting the hell out of here, that’s where I’m going!” Camden yelled back. He turned wild eyes on the bull room, full of editors, writers, assistants, and secretaries. “The guy’s gone totally bug-fuck, people. He’s got a couple of narcs coming over here any moment, and they’re gonna comb this joint!”

  Pandemonium broke out.

  As chairs fell over and drawers screeched open and people rushed to the ladies or men’s room to flush their stashes, Jake Camden hurried down the hall, not even looking behind him to see if Kozlowski’s red face was poking from his office door.

  Fuck the Intruder!

  Jake Camden had better fish to fry now. He was going to sell a book, a movie—and have a dynamite series in some prestigious paper.

  Of course, he had to get the hell out of town, fast, or he’d either be in jail, or dead.

  Jake Camden much preferred being free, and alive.

  Chapter 20

  Road trip!

  Jake Camden grinned as he pulled his car out onto Everglades Avenue, heading toward Route 75 north. He’d hurried back to his apartment, packed a quick bag, dug out his emergency cash cache of four hundred and twenty-two dollars and nineteen cents that he kept stashed in an old sweat sock in his closet, along with the one Visa card in his name that still worked, and an old portable manual typewriter, and flung it all into the back seat of his sedan.

  Well, he thought. I’m just gonna have to head back to New Mexico the hard way.

  It was getting on toward six-thirty in the evening, but thanks to Eastern Daylight Savings Time, the sky was still bright, the sun blazing like a god on a throne of clouds. What a state! thought Camden. You could get up early in the morning, drive east, and watch the sun rise up out of the Atlantic: have a nice day working or lolling about, then drive west and watch it set in the gulf. Camden really loved Florida. He felt more at home here than any other place in the United States. No state income tax, an amazing choice of biomes, beaches, and babes, and lots of people who could bullshit. Besides, here, people didn’t give him crap about his beloved Hawaiian shirts.

  Wistfully, he watched the palm trees whiz by. Somewhere in the distance, a scrub fire was burning. There was the smell of money in the wind. How long before this area got developed? Not long, surely; it wasn’t far from Orlando, and Orlando was booming. When he made his wad on his book and movie, the first thing that Jake Camden intended to do was to sink a healthy portion of it in land, maybe hereabouts. So what if Florida was getting gang-raped, he decided, his cynicism beginning to return. Might as well come in for sloppy seconds!

  He lit himself a Camel cigarette and settled down to enjoy the ride.

  He’d made it about a mile out of town on Palmetto Road when a low-slung Buick land-yacht suddenly hauled out onto the road from nowhere and stopped dead in front of him. Instinct caused him to stomp on the brakes, stopping just yards from hitting the car. If he’d had time to think about it, he would have gunned it, swerved, gone on the shoulder, and made a run for it.

  Three men got of the car, and Camden’s heart sank to sea level.

  It was a comparatively untraveled area he was in now; stretches of fields and trees being the only witnesses to what was going to happen. Jake rammed the gear of his Escort into reverse, but then got a look at the bore of the automatic .45 that Johnny Plentenos was aiming at him. He lost his nerve and stopped long enough for one of the drug dealer’s henchmen to run around and pull him out of the car.

  There was still hope. Not much, but still hope.

  “Johnny! What the hell’s the matter with you?” he said, injecting his voice with a righteous anger. “It’s Monday, right? I’m not supposed to see you till Wednesday afternoon.”

  Plentenos holstered the .45, which made Camden feel a little better. “I got a tip you were leaving town awfully fast, Jake. Didn’t sound like you were coming back, either. I don’t like that, Jake. Looks as though it was true, too, yes?”

  Plentenos wasn’t using his Cuban accent, and he didn’t look like he was playing the Spic macho-villain, either. In fact, he honestly looked upset, and not a little angry, in a quiet, unsettling kind of way. He looked like a man whose honor had been spat upon, but grieved about what he was about to do.

  “Hey, Johnny, I won’t lie to you. Yeah, I’m getting out of town, but it’s not because of you. I’ve got Feds on my tail. FBI. Look I don’t want to go into it—I was really going to get you the money. Just give me a little more time. And for God’s sake, you’d better clear out because they just might be along any minute!”

  “Feds?” Johnny Plentenos looked over to his two men, Miquel and Paco.

  Miquel and Paco shrugged and shook their heads.

  “I don’t think so, Jake. I think it’s your usual bullshit.

  Look, Jake, I’m tired of all this. I think I’m going to have to end it right now. You saved some time for us by coming out here onto Palmetto. Nice and secluded. But we’ll make it fast, so it won’t hurt too much.”

  “Jesus!” Camden tried to pull away from the man holding him. Muscles clenched, and the grip hardened. Not only did Camden not pull free, but he got a punch in his stomach from the other man for his trouble.

  He went to his knees, groaning, the pain waving over him sickeningly.

  “Too bad. Maybe it has to be painful. We take a walk now, Jake. C’mon, I see a nice path up ahead. Miquel, you get these cars off the road. Paco, you come with us.”

  “Christ, Johnny! Look, I’ve got five hundred dollars. It’s yours. Christ, you gave me till Wednesday!’

  “I give you my trust, Camden. You shit on it. Now the fifteen thousand dollars ain’t important. Paco and Miquel, they think I’m a pussy for not killing you last week. I think maybe they were right. But now I make amends. People will know now. They can’t fuck with Johnny Plentenos and live. Now, I fix my name, my rep. Now, I fix you! C’mon, let’s go. The more shit you give us, the more we hurt you before we put you in the ground, Jake!”

  Shit! What was going on here? Jesus, that bastard Donohue—he must have been the one to call Johnny down on him. This meant there were contacts ... Which meant...

  Christ, wasn’t anyone straight in this world?

  “It was that creep lawyer, Donohue, wasn’t it?” Camden spat. “What, whose pocket is in whose there, Johnny. You want to preserve your honor; I’ll tell you right now, you don’t want to fool with that snake!”

  “Shut the fuck up, will you!” Plentenos’s eyes blazed. “You know, I’m doing the world a big favor, Camden. I’m closing your fucking mouth, for good!” -

 
Plentenos kicked Camden in the side. Hard. So hard that it knocked him from Paco’s grasp. Camden rolled away a few yards, but the blow had been so painful that he wasn’t about to get up and try and make a run for it. It was all he could do to hold onto his consciousness. If that went, so went his hope, and he’d wake up dead and buried.

  Plentenos was about ready to kick the fallen Camden again when one of the henchmen yelled something, distracting him.

  “What?”

  “A car! A car is coming.”

  “Shit. Miquel, get the Buick out of the way. They’ll pass.”

  The car, however, did not pass.

  It rammed directly into the Buick, from the other side.

  “Shit!” cried Plentenos. “What the tuck?”

  The Buick swung around and gave Camden’s Escort a good whack on the bumper. Camden was too low to see much, and the pain was distorting his vision, but he could make out the edge of what seemed to be a large black car. He heard the sound of doors opening, shoes clicking onto pavement. He tilted his head and read astonishment on the Latin faces canted against the sky and the palm trees.

  “Madre de Dios!” cried the man called Paco. He reached into his yellow poplin jacket and pulled out his gun, a heartbeat before his companions started to reach for their weapons.

  An explosion, like a hundred caps getting hit by a stone ... A hole opened dead center in Paco’s chest, and a gout of blood licked out like a shapeless dissolving tongue. The big man was knocked back like a broken punching bag, his knees crumpling and eyes turning up toward the sky. He slapped onto the ground right by Camden. The reporter heard the man’s death-rattle squeeze from his throat.

  Camden whimpered, and, half-paralyzed by pain, started crawling for the bushes for the side of the road. If this was some sort of drug vendetta, he didn’t care to be among the vendettees!

  Plentenos and Miquel had their own guns out now, and managed to get off a couple of shaky rounds, but as Camden had always imagined, but never wished to explore, the Latins were not particularly good shots.