The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy

by David Bischoff

  Even though it was upside down, Brian Richards could not help noticing his name in bold letters on the top of the folder, faced away from him.

  “Now, about that drink,” said Cranston, walking over to a large, clearly well-stocked wet bar at one side of the room beneath a gloomy Vermeer that looked startlingly authentic.

  “If you don’t mind, I think I’d rather have a cup of that coffee I smell.”

  “Damned strong stuff, I warn you.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “Please yourself. I’m for a good Scotch myself. Let me know if you change your mind, though. I’d like to think of myself as a hospitable sort.” Mitchell Cranston got himself a large lead glass, used tongs to pull exactly two ice cubes out of a bucket, and then poured a large amount of twenty-year-old Glenlivet. He sipped, sighed with gratification, and then saw to pouring Richards a cup of thick, steaming, aromatic coffee, placing it on the side of the desk by a chair, clearly set up for interview purposes. “Here you go. I believe you’ll find some cream and sugar yonder.”

  “Thank you.”

  Once again, Richards was struck by the mid-Atlantic quality not only of this man’s accent, but his whole manner. He’d often commented to people that he was never quite sure if Cranston was a Brit who had moved to America, or merely an American who’d spent a large chunk of time in England. In any case, his manner didn’t seem affected.

  As Richards poured himself some sugar and cream, Cranston situated himself in his chair, surveyed the file in front of him, and tapped thoughtfully on the keyboard. He patiently waited for Richards to finish his first gulp of coffee before he launched into the meat of the meeting.

  “Now then,” said Cranston. “This Scarborough business...”

  “Under control, I can assure you, sir.”

  “Under control.” Cranston took a thoughtful sip of the whiskey. The eyes stared at him like lasers, focusing up for a strike. “A man with a secret that might expose myself and my Colleagues—to say nothing of the entire White Book and Black Book projects, along with an enormous truth that could change the entire course of Western civilization... and everything is ‘under control.’”

  “Cranston,” said Richards, leaning forward, putting on his jocular mode. “He’s wanted for two murders. We’ve got the FBI, the CIA, the armed forces and the Southwest cops on his trail. This guy’s tail is ours.”

  “You said that when you had him captured,” said Cranston mildly. “But he escaped.”

  “Wild card element entered that situation.” Richards leaned forward emphatically, “But I’m telling you... it was Cunningham who blew that... She wanted to dabble with the guy, against my better judgment. Well, she’s paid the price for that—and we’re not going to fool with Scarborough anymore. If the cops get him, they’re going to turn him over to Federal authorities—us. And we’ll deal with him and his compatriots. If we get him, though—he’s a dead man.”

  Cranston shook his head. “I only wish I had more confidence in your self-assurance, Richards.”

  “You’ve got to admit, from when you first approached me years ago, all the way through my time as Editor-in-Chief, I have served the Publishers well—damned well! Things go a little astray, and you have a fit! The law of averages has been against us—something was bound to foul up eventually. And it’s not as though we’re out of control here, far from it! My people are in command of the situation. There is no way, repeat no way in which Scarborough can escape.”

  “Suppose the wrong people capture him,” said the old man mildly. “He’ll get a fair trial, and he’ll get plenty of opportunity to talk all he wants to. Along with Camden and Manning. They know too much, man. Reports from Wright-Patterson have uncovered tampering with records, even physical entry into the storage area where the remnants of the Roswell saucer were kept. White Book operatives—those who are still alive, anyway—report that Jake Camden was given considerable exposure to interrogation and operating methods.”

  “Camden! No one is going to believe a sleazy reporter for a scandal sheet!”

  “And what about Manning?”

  “She’s clearly infatuated with Scarborough! Conspiracy! Happens all the time.”

  “And in conjunction with the facts at Scarborough’s command now?” Cranston shook his head sadly. “There will be enough interest to intrigue a lot of people. People who can cause an investigation, Richards.” The old man tapped the desk sternly. “An investigation that we can ill afford!”

  “You mean the Publishers.”

  “I mean the Colleagues, Richards. I mean the defenders of Right and Truth. I mean the hope of our world against the onslaught of darkness, disorder, chaos.”

  Richards said nothing. He took another drink of the coffee. He wanted that whiskey now, no question. But damned if he was going to show any kind of weakness to the old man.

  “Granted,” he said finally, after clinking the china cup down into its saucer. Best to always toe the company line on that matter, even if he wasn’t so sure he bought it himself. It was one thing to fuck up; an entirely different affair to show any kind of disloyalty to the party platform. “Okay, I know that. I’m working eighteen hours a day on this. I’m calling in my favors at the FBI, the CIA... the Air Force, every goddamn source I’ve got. I know this is serious, Mr. Cranston. I even got the colonel to stall a retirement.”

  “Walter Dolan, I presume you mean... the perpetrator of the gaffe that led to this mess.”

  Richards felt his brow furrow with concern. “I told you... that really wasn’t entirely Dolan’s fault. It was a bureaucratic foul-up.”

  “Whatever the case, Richards, Dolan will not be involved with the remainder of the Scarborough affair, or with White Book or Black Book, for that matter.”

  “Of course he will—he promised to—”

  “You don’t seem to understand. You cannot have had the opportunity to find out yet—but last night, the unfortunate colonel suffered a fatal—ah—heart attack.”

  It took a solid moment for that to sink in. “What?”

  “He’s dead.” The old man took a drink of his whiskey and glared at Richards, his eyes cold and deadly.

  “Dolan... Christ... You killed him. But I needed him.”

  “It was my decision that Colonel Dolan’s loyalty was questionable. Why else would he even consider retiring in the midst of this crisis?”

  Richards felt no grief or sadness, only a kind of dull fear gnawing at the pit of his stomach. Hints of paralysis crawled up his legs. This was not only bad, it was unthinkable.

  “But even so...” he managed, past a dry mouth. “I’m the executive in charge... responsible for that sort of thing...”

  Cranston leaned back in his chair and laughed—not an easygoing laugh of amusement. It was the laugh of power, of control. “Oh, you always have been the arrogant one, the whole time, Richards. Just because we gave you the fancy title of ‘Editor-in-Chief’ of our ‘Editors,’ you think we depend upon you for everything? It was but a literary conceit, Richards; so, too, the term ‘the Publishers.’” He laughed again, then snapped his fingers. “There. It’s gone. We are no longer ‘Publishers.’ You are no longer ‘Editor-in-Chief.’ There are no longer ‘Editors’ at all.”

  “I don’t... I don’t understand!”

  “Richards, you clearly have had no idea of the enormity of the association which has been paying for your services. “

  “I serve the best interests of my country. The interests of the Pub—I mean the Colleagues—in my opinion, coincide with those of the United States!”

  For the first time ever, Richards saw the man taken aback. His eyes goggled, his mouth dropped a bit, and for the moment he seemed at a loss for words. Then a sharp guffaw escaped him, blown out like a temporary restraining cork, and the laughter flowed after. “My goodness! That is a rip-snorter, Richards! My God, man, you are quite mercenary! Don’t deny that!”

  Richards smiled a bit: a sham. “Is that not fully in the tradit
ion of the masters of this nation—the public masters and the private masters? This house is not exactly a white trash shanty.”

  “You have not been hired to judge,” said the man, suddenly stern again. “You have an understanding of who we are, but it is purposely limited. However, let us get back to the subject at hand, Richards. Everett Scarborough. I am no longer confident in your abilities and the abilities of your associates to deal with the man.”

  “Look, it’s more than that, isn’t it? I mean, it’s more than just one guy! He’s clearly had help... And not just from this Lieutenant Marsha Manning and Jake Camden.”

  “You speak of the Visitors. Yes, they do seem active, don’t they? All the more reason to step up Project Black Book. All the more reason to eliminate Everett Scarborough. Clearly, the Visitors see him as an individual of central importance in their scheme. Would that we knew precisely what that scheme was!” Cranston looked honestly troubled.

  Richards never bothered to think about that much. He was a functional sort, and he didn’t delve much into long-range thinking or the philosophy of culture, history, politics, whatever. The situation when he’d first been brought into this seemed simple enough, if more than bizarre. The history of civilization, its flow of culture, economics, the very flow of history had been controlled since the beginnings of the Industrial Revolution by a consortium of powerful, rich men rooted in conspiracies far deeper than freemasonry, for their own purposes—and perhaps for the good of civilization... Who knew, maybe mankind would be back in barbarism by now if not for them. Richards couldn’t afford to judge. However, Richards did know that by controlling things such as culture and education, even language, these so-called Colleagues essentially controlled the worldview, the minds of the general populace. Enter the Visitors, apparently aliens from another world, on a mission to survey and assess Earth’s civilization. And then, perhaps to contact world leaders and make themselves known. Apparently, that was what they had tried.

  However, the Publishers or Colleagues or whatever they wanted to call themselves immediately saw the threat. The aliens would threaten their iron grip on the flow of Earth’s history. It was first determined that this alien mission was limited in nature; apparently the vessels, their “flying saucers,” were not capable of intergalactic flight. That much was determined by physicists and engineers when one of their vessels crashed in Roswell, New Mexico. Some sort of mother ship had let them off her and would return at some prearranged time. The Visitors had attempted to make official contact, but Cranston had taken care of that. However, two of the aliens had escaped, and there was no telling how many others were out there in their strange craft.

  Utilizing Project Blue Book as a cover-up, using patsies such as Everett Scarborough to “disprove” the existence of alien visitors, the consortium had developed two more projects after Blue Book and had conclusively “proved” the nonexistence of ships piloted by aliens: Project White Book to spread disinformation, and most recently to muddle the issue of the whole abduction controversy; and Project Black Book to seek out and destroy not only evidence of alien presence... but the aliens themselves.

  The aliens had eluded them for years, though. Every time Richards had thought that perhaps they may have simply given up and left Earth, some new incident that had not been concocted by White Book or any other disinformation channel, which could not be disproved by investigators, cropped up. Why they had lingered on, no one knew. But the fact remained that they were still on Earth. And they had some kind of game plan. Now, there could be no question but that Everett Scarborough was important to them. They seemed to be running some sort of interference for him.

  “Can there be any question about Scarborough’s value to them? They see him as the person who can validate them... which is why we’re discrediting Scarborough. Why we’re going to deal with him,” Richards said.

  “Quite. Though you seem to be doing a very bad job of it. Which is why you’re on the carpet now.”

  Richards nodded. “Understandable.” He sighed. “I suppose in your place I’d do the same thing.”

  “We will confer on the matter thoroughly this afternoon and this evening. I am expecting calls from Colleagues and hired experts. You are invited to be my guest here tonight... And then tomorrow you personally will be dispatched to the Southwest to head up your section of the necessary surreptitious manhunt already presumably in progress.”

  “Of course it’s in progress. Like I said, everything is under control. I presume that what you’re implying, sir, is that you’ve some other operational unit you’ve assigned to this matter. The same one you used to give this heart attack to poor old Dolan?”

  Cranston’s face was opaque. “That is my affair, Richards. Absolutely none of yours. Just be happy that you are still on the job, hmmm?”

  “I ask, sir, because there’s absolutely no doubt that it would be far better if my men coordinated their efforts with your new effort.”

  “Let me be the judge of that,” said Cranston imperiously, glaring at his underling. “Let’s just say that perhaps part of the new unit’s duties will be to watch your unit. And you, Richards.” He gave a nasty little smile. “Now then... on to some of the finer details. I’m going to need a full report on this matter to pass along to my—”

  They were interrupted by a knock on the door. Cranston’s craggy eyebrows raised. “Now who could that be? Come in!” he called out.

  Richards turned around in time to see the door open and a brunette head peeked in.

  “Hullo, Uncle! I hope I’m not interrupting anything!” came a London accent.

  It was a young woman in a snappy white and red tennis outfit, a sweater tied around her neck. In her hand was a tennis racket. Richards was struck immediately by her extreme beauty—a sharp, cutting beauty. High cheekbones, bright green eyes, thick sensual lips, all against creamy pale rose skin. Cute compact figure, great legs.

  For an instant, just looking at her made Richards forget about the deep shit he was in.

  “No! Of course not... Brian, I’d like you to meet my grandniece from Britain. Emily Elliot.”

  “Or Charlotte Dickens, as some people call me,” she said, her eyes sparkling with good humor. “It depends upon which Victorian novelists you want to mix and match.” She transferred the tennis racket to her left hand and offered Richards her right. “A pleasure to meet you. Uncle told me he was expecting a man of great importance today, but he didn’t tell me you would do the cover of Gentleman’s Quarterly honor. I was expecting someone a great deal older!”

  Her grip was soft and feminine, and yet had a firmness that Richards found quite exciting. She smelled fresh and soapy clean, with just a trace of perfume hanging about her like a wink.

  As he fancied himself a ladies’ man, Richards was about to say something suggestive, but then he remembered where he was, and more to the point, whose niece this was. “A pleasure to meet you, Emily.”

  “I’m on my way to play some tennis down the road with Heather,” said the niece. “But she’s cancelled out on dinner in New York tonight, so I just wanted to tell you I can join you this evening at your table. “

  Cranston looked honestly pleased. “Splendid! Well then, you should celebrate, Brian. You’ll have far more attractive company than this sour old puss!”

  “Yes, I’ll look forward to it. I’m afraid I only have this suit...”

  “Oh, nothing terribly formal, man. Just bring an appetite.” He turned to the woman. “Well, then, Emily. I’ll notify the cook and Simmons to prepare an extra place for you. You must excuse us now. Have a good tennis game!”

  She bounced away, and then turned around to give Richards one more look. Her face held an interested, curious, almost gay expression—with a dark sultry undertone. All in all, it was perhaps the most exciting and erotic come-hither look that Brian Richards had ever seen beyond a candlelit room with a live orchestra playing.

  A flicker, no more, and then the look snapped off like a light bulb, back t
o the dutiful pleasant niece on a tennis outing come to give Uncle some news.

  Then she was gone, leaving just a trace of lavender in the air behind her.

  “Pretty girl, eh, Richards?”

  “Oh yes. A real looker.”

  “She’ll definitely make dinner a lot more pleasant tonight. Something I’m sure you’ll need after our discussion today.”

  Richards cleared his throat glumly, “Yes.” He stared down at his coffee growing cold in the cup. “Perhaps I will have that stronger drink you offered.”

  “I thought you might. What would you like? Bourbon? Scotch?”

  “Bourbon, thank you.”

  “Ice?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pardon me, but I’m an old man. Maybe you should go and help yourself.”

  Suddenly feeling terribly self-conscious, Richards got up and made himself a drink. As he selected a cut crystal glass and pulled ice out of a bucket with the tongs, he felt that the old man was boring into his back with his eyes.

  He absently picked up a bottle and poured. He almost laughed when he realized that he’d selected a bottle of Old Grandad.

  That broke the spell.

  This guy was just an old man. Powerful, true... but old; operating an old outfit. Old, old, old.

  Richards settled on only half a glass and then carried it almost jauntily back. Yes, the old man couldn’t possibly know about the tricks up his sleeve…

  “Now then,” said Mitchell Cranston. “About the Maximillian Schroeder connection.”

  Chapter 11

  “There are two ways of looking at the universe,” said Lowell Edmund Davis. “As a cold, indifferent place filled with nothing but emptiness, physics, celestial mechanics, and chemical reactions which by accident formed life and awareness purely to be cold, lonely, and depressed.” He sipped at his wine, seeming to consider his words as well as the taste in his mouth. “And then again, you can look at the universe as a fascinating kaleidoscope of light and dark, of wonders within wonders, boxes of mystery within boxes of enigma, puzzles and music and majesty—and all connected by a vital fuse of meaning, laughter, and love.”