The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy

by David Bischoff

  “Damn. What the hell are these?” said Mick, striding forward to have a look. “Jeez,” he said, “it looks like we’ve got some sort of medical museum down here.”

  “I can explain that,” said Martha. “The butler also mentioned that the young master has always had an interest in preserving dead things. For instance, he’s got a whole room in his private apartments devoted to things he’s shot with guns and arrows and then had stuffed, along with a collection of strange and assorted animals from all over the world—stuffed too.”

  “These things are whole animals.” said Jake. “Looks as though they’re bits and pieces of things. Organs—arms, legs... And they don’t look like animals either... Yikes!” He suddenly found himself confronted by an entire head. Nor was it just any old head, either.

  It looked like the head from one of Maximillian Schroeder’s books.

  There was the smooth bald pale head, the almond-shaped eyes—closed here—the narrow chin, the tiny mouth, the slitted nose. From a raggedly severed neck there dangled veins and arteries, nerve-endings, and a ragged spine.

  “Damn,” said Aragones. “Looks damned real, doesn’t it?”

  Jake shook his head, not accepting. “Can’t be. Must be some kind of fake or something.”

  “Yeah, right. We can’t stand around gawking at whatever these things are... We’ve got to find that evidence. Still and all...” He pulled out a camera and snapped off a few quick flashes, getting the desk, the bottles with their odd contents, the filing cabinets.

  “Finished?” said Jake.

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. I don’t particularly care to be the star of these particular pictures. Seeing as I’m about to perform my ordained task!” Thus saying, Jake stooped to his knees and commenced opening drawers and rifling through their contents.

  There were a lot of drawers, a lot of contents. Much of which were indecipherable to Jake. He hadn’t the faintest idea what these things were! There was stuff in here that he simply couldn’t read. Foreign languages, scientific formulae, and lots of legal documents that were hopeless.

  “We’re running out of time, gentlemen,” said Martha, glancing nervously at her watch.

  “Hey, I’m getting nowhere fast,” said Jake. “You want to put on your swimming trunks, jump in, and flounder here with me? There’s more here than I can handle.”

  “I’m not quite sure what we’re looking for,” said Aragones. “Something in English might help for a start.”

  “Okay. I’ll do what I can.”

  Mick Aragones leaned over the farthest untried cabinet and pulled it open.

  A minute later, Jake found a file folder filled with what appeared to be letters. Not only were they letters, but they were clearly written in English—and of several varieties. Some were copies of letters typewritten, by Schroeder to various people—including Dr. Julia Cunningham, Brian Richards and—hey, what do you know, none other than the big cheese Scarborough was talking about—that Mitchell Cranston guy.

  Some letters were from Dr. Cunningham, but none from Richards or Cranston. Plenty of other letters, to people Jake wasn’t familiar with. Nor was there time to really examine them. What was significant was that, in a cursory examination, he was able to determine that what was in the file was nothing less than the gist of the entire White Book program, spelling out Schroeder’s role in it handily.

  “Hey. Goldmine,” said Jake. He pulled the file up and tucked it under his arm. “This is just what we need, guy. Are we going to have fun reading this!”

  “You’re sure?”

  Jake gave him the gist of what he’d found.

  Aragones whistled. “Boy, I’ll say. Sounds like you got the goods there!”

  “Thought I’d find something like this. Guy like Schroeder is anal retentive enough to save this stuff. I’m pretty sure Brian Richards doesn’t have this kind of file. That’s why he’s a pro and Schroeder’s an amateur.”

  “Oh, there’s nothing wrong with keeping copies, as long as you protect them properly,” said a new voice.

  Startled, Jake Camden swung around so quickly he almost lost his grip on the fat file of letters.

  Standing framed by the door, was Maximillian Schroeder.

  Attached, unfortunately, to a gun.

  Chapter 33

  It was strange, staying inside all day.

  And equally strange for Everett Scarborough to stay inside a city that was not only the source of his problems, but his home city as well.

  Although it was a business day, Willard Street was fairly quiet, tucked away as it was from the main thoroughfares of traffic. He was surprised when he slept late, though he immediately got up despite Marsha’s suggestion that he just relax, since there wasn’t any reason to hurry. No, he had to at least drink his coffee and pace around a bit, even though he wasn’t quite sure what it was he could do now. Anyway, at least he felt rested, and he was glad of that. The basic anxiety level hadn’t diminished much, but he didn’t feel as though he was going out of his mind.

  They ate breakfast, and while they waited for the call from Craig Steffan that would move them along to the next step, Marsha took her special portable computer with its built-in modem and plugged it into the line that Steffan had showed her.

  Who knew what they might come up with in the files they had accessed?

  Scarborough watched and made suggestions as best he could, but they didn’t come up with much. Still, it was better than doing nothing.

  Scarborough didn’t pay much attention to the rolling computer screens. Half of his mind was preoccupied, casting back to the events of the last weeks, sifting through missed clues—ignored data input, so to speak. Pretty stunning to think how much had changed in him and around him since he had walked up on that lecture podium at the University of Maryland and gotten shot at.

  Some catastrophic stuff, horribly painful. The deaths that had occurred—Mac MacKenzie and Walter Mashkin in particular—were tragic and inexcusable. Diane’s disappearance had been devastating. And the whole experience of discovering how wrong he’d been, how much he’d played the puppet for this incredible conspiracy, had not only rattled his sense of self, it had almost destroyed his whole identity. Still, for all of that, he was not sorry for what he’d become because of it. He’d been beaten and humbled and yet was unbowed. And yet, fundamentally he had changed. It was as though he was in some sort of Greek tragic-comedy and the gods of Olympus had seen his hubris, his pride and arrogance, puffed up like a balloon.

  And they’d pricked the balloon.

  The result had been explosive and certainly destructive. But he had survived—Doctor Everett Scarborough was still here, though in much altered form.

  Perhaps even a better form.

  The universe was certainly a different place now, and how he was going to cope with it once this business was all over with, had yet to be seen. But he knew he’d have Marsha along to help him, and he knew he’d have an expanded view of the universe... certainly a much different universe than he’d ever contemplated before, but then since its reality was irrefutable, he had to accept it.

  Heavens, what books he would write now! What strange things he would say on interview shows! What odd lectures he would give!

  His musings, however, were brought up short by Marsha Manning.

  “Ev. Take a look at this.”

  Scarborough left his chair that he’d been sitting in and leaned over her chair, stared at the computer monitor. The whole screen was white with a bank of numbers.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m taking another look at the phone records. This time for outgoing calls from Mitchell Cranston’s office. See this number here?” She tapped the screen.

  “Yes.”

  She held up a phone book opened to the blue government pages. “This looks like a high-level number, going straight into the White House Executive Building.”

  “Hmm. What are you saying, that the President is involved with this?”

&
nbsp; “No, not necessarily. Maybe nobody at the White House is involved. But all these calls to the Executive Building—Everett... it would appear that somebody pretty high up is implicated!”

  “Could be just normal business activity.”

  “It could be a lot of things. But with what’s been going on, and because it’s Mitchell Cranston’s office, it would appear likely that it’s something sinister!”

  “Or maybe it’s just that you’ve gotten paranoid!”

  She smiled, lightening up a bit. “From hanging out too much with you?”

  “You have to face it, it’s a strong possibility.”

  “I don’t think so. I’m pretty literal minded.”

  “Well, just mark the possibility. Good work, though. See who else and where they’ve called as well.”

  She put up a finger. “Well, there have been a lot of calls up to a Massachusetts number. I’ve got it down and I’m going to look it up... and then a Bedford Hills number...”

  “Yes. That would be Cranston’s home in Westchester County, according to the alie...” he caught himself. “That is, the Others.”

  “Right. A lot of activity out of that office, and who knows how much of it actually pertains to White Book and Black Book.” She sipped at her coffee. “I mean, it’s pretty mind-boggling when you think of the implications of what the Others say that these powerful people are doing!”

  “And you just wonder how long they and their forebears have been doing it... How wrapped up they are not just with history and politics... but with culture, the arts... goodness, with radio, movies, and television.”

  Scarborough nodded. “Definitely television.”

  Marsha went back to work. Scarborough picked up a pen and a piece of paper and began to sketch out some sort of plan.

  He was halfway into it when the sound of the doors and footsteps downstairs alerted them to the return of Craig Steffan.

  Marsha turned off her computer and they went downstairs to meet him.

  Steffan had a man with him.

  “Everett, Marsha... this is the man I was telling you about. Vince Scapelli… Everett Scarborough and Marsha Manning... my own personal fugitive friends.” Craig laughed amiably.

  Hands were shaken.

  Vincent Scapelli was a handsome fortyish man in a light three-piece suit with dark blown-dry salt-and-pepper hair. He had a long Neapolitan nose and the deepest, brownest eyes that Scarborough had ever seen in his entire life. He looked more like a rake or a rogue than a button-down K -Street lawyer, and he had a nice warm lavender scent to him that reminded Scarborough of the old Italian barbershop in Bethesda where he used to get his hair cut, and, for a special treat, get professional shaves.

  “The infamous UFO doctor,” said Scapelli. “My goodness, you don’t look like criminals to me, either of you. “

  “I hope that Craig has given you at least some of the story,” said Scarborough.

  “Oh yes, pretty much the whole thing. And yes, to get to the heart of the situation, I’d be more than happy to take on your case, once it goes public... I must confess I’m a little nervous about meeting you before there’s actually any kind of trial set, but I understand the situation... and actually, considering that I highly respect Craig’s opinions, both personal and professional, I’m more than happy to help you out in any way that I can.”

  “It could be a tough one,” said Scarborough. “But I’ve got the money to afford a good lawyer, and heaven knows I’m going to need one.”

  “Money’s not a particular object in this particular situation,” said Scapelli. “I personally think that your rights and civil liberties have been violated.”

  “Actually, I’m the one who’ll probably need a lawyer the most,” said Marsha. “But a military one.”

  “You’re not accused of murder, are you?”

  “No, but it’s all the same in the military. I’m probably ripe for a court-martial. Are you going to be able to refer me to someone?”

  “Marsha, Marsha” said Craig Steffan. “This is Washington, D.C.! We’ve got a lawyer network you wouldn’t believe!”

  Scapelli grinned and rubbed his hands. “Let’s just say, Ms. Manning, that you’ve come to the right place. Now, Craig, where’s that glass of wine you promised me? I can see that we’re in for a long chat here, and I must confess, I’m in the mood now for a rattling good story!”

  Scarborough told his tale.

  Or at least the abbreviated, edited version, with very few references to such things as mega-conspiracies and aliens and other psychotronic paraphernalia. No, he limited things to the hard cold facts, in particular the hard cold legal facts. Specifically, what both he and Marsha were charged with, and what the truth actually was.

  “Hmmm. Just as I thought,” said Scapelli, jotting a few more notes on the legal pad he’d pulled out of his briefcase just before Scarborough had begun his story. “All pretty much circumstantial evidence... Particularly in the case of Mac MacKenzie... And I honestly don’t think that they can make anything stick in this business with the man called Woodrow Justine, either... particularly since we’ll hopefully have Jake Camden to testify.” He tapped his pen thoughtfully on the paper. “Your editor in New York... Well, that’s circumstantial as well. In fact, Mr. Scarborough... as your lawyer, I might advise you that if it’s convenient, you might think about turning yourself in.”

  “But that’s...”

  Scapelli smiled grimly. “However, I’m not going to. Since this is apparently some sort of government conspiracy, God alone knows how far their tentacles extend. No, I think you’re right here... It’s best to use your freedom to compile your case. Meantime, I’ll explore the avenues that might open up to you during your own efforts... And make myself available for consultation on any matters you care to.” He shook his head. “Troubling. Very troubling, all of this. As you know, I share with Craig a deep commitment to the fundamental rights of individuals upon which this government is based. To see such rank abuse... and running so deeply... it just turns my stomach. I shall do anything I can to—”

  The phone rang.

  “Excuse me,” said Steffan. He picked the sleek new office phone up. “Yes?” he said into the receiver. His eyes turned a little odd, and he looked over to Scarborough.

  Something tingled Scarborough’s spine.

  “I see. I understand,” said Steffan. “Yes, I suppose you should.” He held the phone out to Scarborough. “I think you’d better take this one, Everett...”

  Scarborough found his mouth was dry.

  The Others? Another message, another instruction?

  “Yes?” he said, as he brought the phone up to his ear.

  “Daddy,” said the voice of Diane Scarborough. “Daddy, it’s me.”

  Chapter 34

  Jake Camden’s bowels felt as though they’d turned to watery sludge. He could feel his adrenaline, clothed in spikes and barbs, instantly sprint through his circulatory system.

  But he kept his head. He turned slightly away from Max Schroeder, dipping his right hand into the lower right-hand pocket of his coat.

  The pocket where he kept the gun.

  “Damn,” said Mick Aragones, voicing Jake’s thought precisely. “Where the hell did you spring from?”

  “It is my family’s house,” said Schroeder. “I come and go as I like. When I heard you’d gone to Mick Aragones, Jake, I figured you two might come here. Unfortunately, I didn’t arrive quickly enough to prevent you from getting in… with, unfortunately, the help of someone I thought I could trust since she was in my employ.”

  “That gun really isn’t necessary,” Martha Eustace said, her bare hands tensed into fists. “Isn’t it?”

  “What are you going to do with us?” she demanded.

  Schroeder’s smooth face wrinkled a bit with thought beneath the rounded glasses. He wore just jeans and a flannel shirt today, not his usual attire. He looked tired and harried, and just about as unhappy to find Camden and company here as they were
to be found out. “I suppose the first thing would be to request that you replace anything that you’ve stolen.” He gestured the gun toward Jake. “Like that file folder in your hands. Why don’t you just place it on the desk there?”

  “Sure,” said Jake.

  “Just have a care with that gun there,” said Aragones. “And let the woman go. This wasn’t her fault. We made her take us down here.”

  “Oh? That sounds rather unlikely. Particularly considering our history. Although I must say, I had no idea that you knew about this place, Martha.”

  “She didn’t...” insisted Mick. “I made her find out. Just let her go, man. She’s not involved.”

  “Oh but she is now... She’s seen the room.”

  “Nothing much here of note,” said Mick. “I mean, if you don’t count your strange body-parts collection. “

  “You couldn’t possibly understand any of this,” spat Schroeder. “You couldn’t realize how deep and sincere I’ve been in what I’m doing!”

  “What,” said Jake, “fucking up the minds of people with poison about benevolent extraterrestrial intelligence? Serving your warped, sick, old-boy network to keep them in power! Prostituting your God-given writing ability for an evil organization!”

  Jake realized that he was going a little overboard on that one, especially after his checkered career. But, hey, he had to say something to keep Schroeder talking so that he could figure out what the hell to do now!

  “Your information is clearly faulty to the extreme,” said Schroeder.

  Mick Aragones jumped in, seeing what Jake was doing. “You deny that this whole alien abduction has been a charade! You deny that you’ve lied in print for the specific purpose of giving bad PR to a bunch of benevolent aliens only wishing to contact us and induct us into the Galactic Order!”

  “Benevolent! Again, that word! You’re fools if you think that! Fools! The aliens on this planet are insidious! They are the evil forces that would subvert us! They are the ones who would change us. How do you know that they do not wish to make us slaves? We know next to nothing of who they really are! We know nothing of their true designs for us! I work for the good of human civilization. And I will do all that is within my power to thwart their plans. Yes, I admit... I personally have never been kidnapped, abducted. However, we have proven cases of alien abduction, upon which my fabrications are based!”