“O—kay! Just one glass of wine for me, Davis. But as long as it’s just one, you might as well make it your very best.”
“I’m certain that Ms. Manning here is worthy of my best, Camden—but I’m not so sure about you.” He chuckled. “Oh well, I suppose so—if it’s only one small glass!”
The notion of drinking wine and eating good food with this attractive and interesting man, along with obtaining his viewpoint on this whole matter in which they were enmeshed, thrilled Marsha.
Maybe they were actually going to find something out!
Maybe they’d be able to tell Everett Scarborough what was going on, that stubborn, stubborn man!
Maybe, as Camden had intimated, the Others—or whoever they were—had meant for them to go and talk to Lowell Davis. Maybe this guy had the answers... or if not the answers, then maybe definite clues!
Her natural inclination was to come right out with the questions for Davis—but he was bustling about in the kitchen, getting together things for them to eat with such energy and exuberance, chattering on to such an extent, that Marsha wasn’t able to get a word in edgewise. Davis also popped a CD of some deliciously sinuous New Age synthesizer music in, not too loud to destroy conversation, but just the right volume to encourage relaxation.
Marsha sat down in one of the slanted Scandinavian-style chairs in the dining room and found the position so comfortable and the music so pleasant and interesting that she decided to forgo her curiosity awhile and just immerse herself in auditory sensation.
“Nice, huh?” said Davis, coming in with a tray of cheese, crackers, and several spreads—including caviar, it seemed—and some cut vegetables. “I enjoy electronic music, but I don’t care much for the treacly stuff they call New Age these days. This, for example, is a group called Tangerine Dream—some of the pioneers of electronic rock, from Germany. You may have heard some of their film scores. This is from an album called Phaedra. The harmonics and textures are truly astounding on the CD, which I’m playing at the moment.”
“Cripes, Davis,” crowed Camden, clearly feeling expansive and excited at the notion of that small glass of wine. He spoke around a mouthful of food, sputtering out pieces of New Zealand water cracker. “You don’t have any blues, do you, pal? Like, some John Lee Hooker? Some Muddy Waters.” Camden mimed some air guitar. “I’m in the mood for da blues! Whatcha think, those flying saucer people, they like the Mississippi Delta stuff?”
Davis arched an eyebrow. “You’d be surprised.” He clapped his hands together with a decision. “But that and other matters relating to alien occupation of the earth will be the stuff of our dinner discussion, I suspect. That is why you’re here, isn’t it? Or at least I gleaned as much from your telephone call, Jake?”
“Oh, yeah. Right. The UFOnauts. Important stuff, true... but you wanna get out that vino, compadre? A sure conversational aid!”
“Is a red all right with you, Marsha?”
Marsha nodded. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I think I’d prefer red.”
“Excellent. Then I won’t have to chill it.”
“A time saver!”
“I know just the vintage!”
“Fourteen percent alcohol!” said Jake.
“I’m not sure that wine this old will have that kind of analysis,” said Davis. He crossed the kitchen to a door, and opened it. Steps lead down to what was apparently a cellar. “Will you two excuse me?”
Marsha was helping herself to crackers and caviar. “I think we’ve got enough to keep us busy here.”
Camden chomped away for a few judicious moments, then said, “What do you think, Marsha? Pretty cool guy, huh?”
“He’s quite intriguing, yes.” She eyed the accoutrements of the kitchen. It was a modern culinary expert’s dream, from wok to burgeoning spice rack to food processor, all sparkling clean. “He’s not what I expected at all.”
“What. You mean from what Scarborough said?” Camden made a gesture of dismissal. “Don’t listen to that guy. Davis just happens to be as smart as him, and maybe just as clever. Got a few barbs into our good buddy that I don’t think old Scarby has ever quite properly removed.”
“Maybe we’d better not bandy his name about!” Marsha said, pointing toward the stairs.
“Look, we’ll just tell him that we know Scarborough. We don’t have to tell him where Scarborough is!”
Marsha shrugged. “Okay. Whatever you say.”
She ate some more crackers, this time with first-rate English Cotswold cheese. This guy had superior taste, no question.
In very short order, Davis had returned, carrying two dusty bottles of French red wine. “Here we go. A very nice vintage. Marsha, would you be a dear and get down three wine glasses from that cabinet there while I uncork these fellows?”
Marsha went to the indicated cabinet and opened the walnut door. She couldn’t help but notice Davis’s admiring eyes on her as she reached up and retrieved the requested crystal. And, for her own part, being this close to him as he worked on the wine sealant, she could not help but notice the crisp, warm cologne he wore, spiked no doubt by ample pheromones. The effect was sexy, almost erotic. There was a definite intelligent masculinity about him, and Marsha always found that rare combination quite exciting.
“Thank you!” Davis poured the first bottle of wine out into the three large glasses. Before he could distribute them, however, Camden darted in and grabbed the fullest glass, almost topped off.
“Cheers!” he said, and sipped. He stopped, as though he’d just drunk something he hadn’t expected to. He blinked, stared down at the wine for a second, then looked up at Davis, astonishment in his eyes. “Yow! What is this stuff?”
“Good wine. As opposed to the stuff that you’re probably used to, Jake. That is, from what I’ve seen you guzzling down before!”
“A revelation! A mystical experience,” said Jake. He took another sip, not a large swallow at all, seeming to actually savor it. A very un-Jakey thing for him to do, from what Scarborough had told Marsha of him and from her own experience of his personality, his crude acculturation. A kind of change came over his face and for a moment—just a moment—Jake Camden was an entirely different sort of person. He looked over at Lowell Davis and said, in a voice unaffected by slang or attitude, “This really is fine wine, Davis!”
“Why, thank you, Jake. Yes. It’s fairly famous amongst wine connoisseurs, and I seem to have lucked into a good batch at a reasonable price. Picked up two cases of the things. But Marsha—aren’t you going to give it a try?”
“Oh... sure.” She picked up her glass and sipped. Usually red wine had a slightly bitter tang and a sharp aftertaste. This, though, was mellow and fruity yet without being cloying or sweet. In short, it was utterly delicious, the best wine that Marsha Manning had ever tasted. Not that she had a wide experience of winetasting—but still, she thoroughly appreciated the stuff. “Heavens! It is pretty good, isn’t it?”
“Terrific. I thought you might enjoy it. Have as much as you care to-and by the way, I hope you know I have two guest rooms, so you’re both welcome to stay the night.” Davis opened his mammoth Frigidaire. “Let me see here. What do I have to whip up at short notice? Hmm... Well, I’ve got a quiche lorraine. A full pie from yesterday that I made for lunches. And some nice pesto sauce. I could boil up some pasta. That shouldn’t take too long. And I’ve got salad makings, too. Well, then, folks. You think that would be a good enough dinner?”
“Sounds pretty good to me.” Jake had settled down at the table, his glass of wine set before him like a sacrament. He had been sipping reverently.
“Hmmm? Oh yes... certainly... that sounds excellent! Can I help with the salad or anything?” Marsha said.
Davis smiled enchantingly. He pulled open the crisper drawer and gestured at the bounty of vegetables inside.
“Please! Be my guest. Bowl and knife are over here! You can work yonder on that cutting board.”
Marsha nodded. That would be fine.
She made sure s
he had her glass of wine with her to keep her company.
Chapter 10
The Cadillac limo had been waiting at La Guardia. It had picked him up and now swept along the curve of Queens past Flushing at the detritus of the 1960 World’s Fair, across the Triboro Bridge, up Roosevelt Parkway, through the Bronx, and then onward up along the Major Deegan Parkway into Westchester County. The driver was stiff and uncommunicative beyond the window divider, dressed in limo hat, limo coat. Formal all the way.
Along about Pleasantville, with the mental screws of anxiety tightening on his stretched-out nerves, Brian Richards did what he’d resisted all the way from National Airport via the Shuttle: He leaned forward, took a glass, got some ice from the insulated bucket, grabbed the closest specimen of bourbon, dumped a hasty splash, brought it to his lips, and guzzled.
This was bad, he allowed the thought as he let the alcohol loosen his muscles, his inner network of defenses. This was very bad. To be summoned by Mitchell Cranston, called on the carpet of his own home... well, it had simply never happened before. Cranston’s communications—and the other directions from the Colleagues—had been sent via packet, given over the phone, or delivered directly at one of their infrequent secret conclaves. Brian Richards had never actually been to any of the Colleagues’ homes, much less the mansion of the “old man” himself. And after the events of the past month, Richards knew that he wasn’t being summoned to receive any medals.
Forty-five minutes from the time of Richards’s pick-up, the limo turned off onto the Mount Kisco exit. It wove through the picturesque streets of an old pleasantly weather-beaten town, and then angled up a hill into an area where the houses grew larger—much larger—and more widely spaced. Curiously, at this point, closing in on their destination, Richards’s anxiety lessened rather than grew. Whether it was because of the whiskey or just the sight of these houses, he didn’t know. Large houses—demi-mansions even—were, after all, just houses. People took their pants down to shit in their bathrooms just like anywhere in the world. Mitchell Cranston had imbued himself with an immense amount of power over the years, true—but he was just a man, and an old one at that. Working with life and death so interchangeably as he did, Brian Richards was quite aware of other people’s—and his own—mortality. This was what gave him an edge. He’d learned that in the field when he was a very young man.... If you just accepted that you were going to die eventually, maybe even very soon, and you didn’t give a damn, that gave you an incredible advantage in a situation. Besides, if Cranston was going to kill him, he wouldn’t summon him to his own home to do so.
The limo cruised along a not-quite country road with a wooden fence and a field. It turned and traveled past a few more houses, another field, and then turned into a long circular driveway. At the top of the crescent stretched a large stone house, a very beautiful structure of exquisite early twentieth century architecture with beautifully crafted pillars and stone steps at the front entrance.
The driver got out to open the door, but Richards beat him to the punch, stepping out under his own power.
“Here we are, sir,” said the man, a young well-built fellow who probably did a great deal more for the Colleagues than drive a limo.
“Yes, I rather guessed as much. What next?”
“You’re expected at the front at about this time.”
“Thanks for the ride. See you on the way back. “
The chauffeur smiled at this, and for a moment Richards’s fear came back from the way he smiled—a little roller-coaster lurch of the stomach. It was a nasty little smile, seen only in hoodlums or professional killers. It reminded Richards again of whom he’d sold his soul to.
The Mafia of the Mind.
He shook off the feeling. He reached back into the limo and grabbed his Gucci briefcase. He closed the door, then straightened his tie in the reflective surface of the window. He smoothed back his hair, cleared his throat, and, assuming his characteristic confident gait, walked up the steps to where the imposing door hovered. He gave a shave-and-a-haircut-two-bits knock, stepped back a pace, and took a deep breath.
A young man in a sweater, tie, and long swept-back hair answered the door. He wore glasses and was carrying a pen in his hand, as though Richards had just interrupted him in the process of scribbling something. There was a feckless air about the young man—deep but distracted intelligence—as he blinked at the new arrival.
“Yes?”
“Richards.”
“Pardon me?”
“Brian Richards. To see Mitchell Cranston? I have an appointment.”
Odd. Richards had almost expected something out of a Godfather movie. A high fence. Guards with unsightly metallic bulges in their pockets. A heavy-lidded henchman answering the door, looking furtively over his shoulder to see if he’d been followed. A thorough frisk. Instead, here was a guy who looked like he’d just stepped out of a Yale library.
“Oh, Very well. I don’t usually answer the door; I was just doing a little work on the computer down here... Well then, if you’re expected, then you really should come in, shouldn’t you?”
“Thanks.”
The door opened wide and the young man beckoned Richards to enter. Inside, the foyer opened up immediately into a large hall backed by a large staircase with an exquisitely carved bannister and old ornate carpeting. Vases with flowers sat upon tables; excellent artwork hung on the walls. In short, the place was clearly decorated with a great deal of cultured taste and intelligence. It smelled vaguely of wood-smoke, Lemon Pledge, and the fresh-cut lilacs in various parts of the room.
“Ummm... Sorry about the informality...” said the young man, looking decidedly awkward. “I’m not quite used to these situations. I don’t usually answer doors for guests, but I’d like to do it right for Mr. Cranston.”
“A problem?”
“Yes. I’m not quite sure if it’s the correct thing to bring you to his study where I know he is—or have you wait out here.”
“I believe the correct protocol is to have me wait here, Mr....”
“Emory. Harry Emory.” The young man agreeably shook Richards’s hand. “Thanks a lot, Mr. Richards. Can I get you anything to drink first? I think there’s some coffee left in the kitchen.”
“I’m fine, thank you. I’d just like to see Mr. Cranston. I’ll sit right here, if that’s okay with you.” He indicated a sturdy-looking polished antique chair.
“Oh, sure. Looks like you’re in a hurry.”
“Mr. Cranston didn’t tell me exactly why he wanted to see me. I must say, I’d like to find out as soon as possible.”
The man fidgeted a little, with some self-conscious gestures of the hands. “Oh! I see! You must be from...”
“From Washington. Yes.”
A different kind of expression invaded the man’s face. Appreciation and maybe even a little fear. It was an expression that immediately made Richards feel more comfortable and in control—it was an expression that he was accustomed to. “Ah.” Emory’s eyes flickered over the neat, shortly cut suit, the bright red power tie, and Richards could almost hear the echo in the guy’s head: “C.I.A”
“Well, I’m sure Mr. Cranston won’t want to keep you waiting. I’ll bring him right back.” He turned without any more hesitation and walked away down a corridor, his steps echoing about him hollowly.
Richards tried to make himself comfortable in the chair, acting as nonchalantly as was possible. But the wood was so hard against his lean buttocks that he could not. He rose instead and tried to settle himself by pacing.
Somehow, the lack of formality here made him even more nervous than if there had been a pair of armed guards here fronting a stiff bureaucracy.
He didn’t have to wait long before Mr. Emory returned. Walking with him at a surprisingly agile clip was a man who looked well past seventy, but in good shape. He had a full head of grey hair and wore a blue polo sweater over a neatly pressed white linen shirt and a black pair of pleated slacks. He wore bifocal glasses wh
ich he adjusted to examine his guest as he approached.
Brian Richards recognized him, of course, from their previous personal encounters—rare, but memorable.
It was Cranston. Mitchell Cranston.
“Richards. So glad you could hop on up,” said the old man. “Thanks, Emory. You can go back to work if you like.”
“Maybe I’ll see you later, Mr. Richards,” said Emory, looking a little more comfortable now. “Mr. Cranston tells me that you’ve got a lot of interesting stories to tell.”
“Highly classified stories,” said Richards with a faint smile.
“That’s okay. I can get into any classified government material anyway, no problem. Part of my job. Isn’t that right, Mr. Cranston?”
“I don’t believe that Mr. Richards’s stories are the sort that the government keeps on file, son.” He shooed his assistant off, then took Richards by the arm and guided him back toward the direction in which he’d come.
“Come on, Brian. I hope you had a good trip.” He took a sniff. “I see you’ve made good use of the limo’s liquor. Come on; let me get you some better stuff.”
“Why couldn’t we talk on the phone, sir?”
Cranston sighed. “You’ll know that soon enough. Come on. I could use a Scotch myself.” Without further ceremony, the old man turned and strode back in the direction from which he had come, at a pace that Richards had to hurry to catch up with. He was led down a hallway covered with portraits of eighteenth, nineteenth, and twentieth century men, some of whom Richards recognized, some of whom he did not. Their footsteps were muffled in an old, well-kept oriental carpeting.
The hallway opened up into a large library-cum-study, its high shelves crammed with books, its floor covered with a curious array of cushions, coffee tables, and ancient overstuffed high-backed chairs. The place was filled with the aroma of pipe tobacco, old parchment, and strong Turkish coffee. The day’s New York Times lay rumpled and winged over one of the chairs.
The main feature of the room, however, was a huge teak desk, old in design and yet without the antique-look that old furniture gets. Behind this was a large modem swivel chair, the type that one imagined a tycoon like the late Armand Hammer would have used. On one side of the desk was an intercom setup; on the other was a computer whose cursor blipped in the midst of some sort of spreadsheet. A cup of coffee was propped up on a stack of file folders. An open folder holding a small pile of documents stood at center stage.
The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy Page 83