On the final Saturday she dragged her roommate, Janine, on a prolonged shopping trip and then to a movie. Sunday she could not shake the doldrums and spent the day in fretful listlessness. Monday evening she went to bed early, but tossed in a restless, unsatisfying sleep. Something in her kept time, and she later found herself wide awake, staring at the ceiling. Without looking at the clock she knew that it must be nearly one a.m. An hour earlier in Dallas it was about to happen. She continued to stare in the darkness, straining to project herself into the scene. What would she see? What would it do? She felt completely halted in that prolonged state of painful anticipation, but then the alarm pulled her up from a deep sleep. She pried her eyes open. The world still looked the same.
“You ever been to Dallas before?” Glen Wilson asked his partner in a subdued voice.
The two men walked slowly, purposefully, down the street, eyes catching every facet of the subdued activity.
“Me? Nah,” replied Sam Spangler. “Unless you count changing planes in the airport. You ever ride those little trolleys?”
“Um. Yeah, couple of times. Kinda fun at first, no driver and all. Irritating, though, when they stop for no apparent reason.”
They skirted a disheveled old man, slumped asleep against the wall, legs sprawled onto the sidewalk, brown bag cradled in his lap.
“I was just thinking,” Wilson continued, “I’ve seen a few boots and hats, but except for the fact that it’s damn awful hot, it’s hard to tell where we are. I mean, look at this. Bars, strip joints, porny flicks. The only women you see that aren’t hookers are with some guy hustling ‘em off somewhere else. Just a little seedy piece of anywhere, USA.”
“You’re right about that,” Spangler agreed. “They do move a lot of produce through here in the daytime, I guess.” He flicked a rotting cabbage with the side of his shoe. It rolled up against the barred storefront. Behind the bars were partitioned tables waiting the next day’s yield.
“You’re also right about the heat. Feels like I’m wearing a blanket. Told you we should’ve gone native, jeans and T-shirts. Would have fit right in and been a damn sight cooler than these suits.”
“Hey, better than that,” Wilson shot him a quick smile, “I coulda dressed as a wino and sat around taking it easy and you coulda come in drag and walked the streets ‘til something happens. You might’ve made a few bucks.”
Spangler smiled back and swaggered a few steps. They reached a corner and turned to cross the street, waiting for the light. Wilson looked up at the buildings around them. The tallest ones of the main commercial area were a few blocks away. Around them, the buildings ranged from two to ten stories in height, the upper stories mostly dark as midnight approached. Once across the street they turned and headed back in the direction from which they had come. Wilson glanced at his watch.
“Five minutes?”
Spangler nodded confirmation. “Beats the hell out of me how they can know where something is going to happen, and when, to the second, and not know what. Screwy damn assignment.”
They walked on in silence, checking their watches more frequently as the assigned time approached, unconsciously walking more slowly, watching more carefully. Finally they stopped. Wilson noticed the digits on his watch that indicated seconds as they flashed to zero-zero, signaling the onset of the final minute during which the unspecified, but potentially dangerous event should occur. He tried to simultaneously register the numbers on the watch as they swapped places, second by second, and the urban visage around them. Thirty seconds later, he realized he had been holding his breath as he strained for any clue. He stared at the watch and exhaled, more loudly than he had intended.
The sound of his released breath mingled with and covered the onset of a strange whistling roar. The two agents glanced suddenly at one another and then turned to look down the street, trying to fix the location of the noise. It seemed to rise rapidly above the buildings.
The roar diminished, to be replaced by a hoarse cry. In the middle of the next block a man emerged onto the sidewalk and stood there, his frantic screams tearing the night.
A hole appeared in the concrete foundation of the basement of the Poodle Lounge. Twin punctures followed in the keg of beer immediately above it. As the pressurized brew began to spurt a frothy spout, another hole was ripped in the floor of the bar. Chaos ensued there as the quiet atmosphere was split by the sound of smashing glass shelves and bottles, as if someone had suddenly taken an ax to the racks behind the bar. As the bartender spun to stare in disbelief, a new hole had already been drilled in the ceiling above his head.
Upstairs at Crazy Lil’s they played out the quiet midweek evening. The smoky room was dominated by a small oblong stage surrounded by seats for patrons. At the four corners of the stage were pillars that supported a canopy with mirrored undersurface and ruffled trim, the whole thing a grotesque parody of an old four-poster bed. Along one wall a screen was mounted for entr’acte movies. Opposite were a pair of coin-operated pool tables. At one of these, a tough- looking pair played eightball, studiously ignoring the woman working on the stage.
The audience was sparse. Three young cowboy-types in boots, jeans, and carefully sculpted straw hats. One of these boasted an unlawful eagle feather, the emblem of little britches rodeo days, not long past. A few bored salesmen sat each by himself, their common predicament being insufficient grounds to bring them together. The only spirit came from two stray out-of-town convention goers. One of these had just crooked a finger and gestured with a dollar bill. The dancer had interrupted her gyrations to pause in front of him, pelvis outthrust, as he worked the bill under the strap of her g-string. That position was one of precarious balance and left her unprepared for what happened next.
She felt as if the floor were suddenly thrust up under her, as with the rapid rise of an elevator. She fell backward heavily onto the stage. As she tipped, a large ragged gash was torn along the length of one of the four canopy posts. The post snapped and splintered. Deprived of symmetrical support, the mirrored canopy sagged and then twisted as the remaining three posts tilted in unison.
The dancer stared upward in numb shock and saw her image grow. With a burst of panic she realized the canopy was collapsing upon her. She flung her arms over her face and shrieked. The men seated along the perimeter recoiled frantically as chairs and bodies went sprawling. The young cowboy with the eagle feather made an aborted move toward the woman, but he was too far away. The canopy crashed down putting an abrupt end to her screams.
The bouncer-cashier-projectionist, who had been sitting on a stool by the entrance attempting to read a paperback western in the dim light, dropped the book when the first post splintered and stood as if paralyzed, watching the collapse of the canopy. In the stillness that followed, he took a few tentative steps toward the stage. All he could see of the dancer was one leg. A shard of mirror the size and shape of a pizza slice was embedded in her thigh, its shiny surface obliterated by a pulsing gout of arterial blood. The man paled, raced for the door and clattered down the stairs toward the street shouting hysterically.
Across the alley and down the block rose one of the taller buildings in the neighborhood. It was vacant save for a janitorial staff scattered over several floors. As the patrons of Crazy Lil’s joined the hysterical employee on the adjacent street, a small tunnel was punctured in the rear corner of the building where the left side and rear walls joined. This tunnel proceeded rapidly but methodically down through the wall passing with equal ease through concrete and reinforcing bars.
A minute or so passed uneventfully, then fractures began to radiate from the tunnel into the surrounding concrete. The building settled slightly, amplifying the unequal distribution of stress along the wound and increasing the rate of fracturing.
Inside, in a corner of the building, a weary man guided a buffing machine slowly back and forth. He stopped suddenly as he felt a shift in the floor. The unguided buffing machine dug more heavily on one side and skittered away from h
im. He grabbed for it and quickly shut it off. He stood, listened and felt through his feet the barely perceptible vibrations of rupturing concrete.
He shuffled out of the office into the hallway. He stopped and felt with his feet again and sensed nothing.
“Hey, Harold!”
A young man working with a mop on the floor at the far end of the corridor looked up.
“C’mon down here. There’s sumpin’ funny goin’ on.”
The old man led the younger one into the office and stood him in the corner. They stared at one another as each felt the minute vibrations emanating from the weakened corner. Suddenly, a portion of the rear wall sagged a quarter of an inch. A jagged crack raced from the corner of the room to the windowsill. The window glass shattered; some pieces fell inward; others made the longer plunge to the alley below.
Harold shouted.
“Hey! This mother’s comin’ apart!”
He raced for the door. The old man followed him in a lumbering jog.
“Harold, you’re faster than I am. You get upstairs and warn the folks there. I’ll head down.”
Harold spun to a stop’ and stared hard at the old man. After a long moment he nodded and pushed through the exit door into the stairway and headed up three steps at a time. The old man followed him and two-stepped downward.
A block away, Glen Wilson and Sam Spangler had joined the crowd that stood a discreet distance from the man who had run, shouting into the street. Now the man was pacing nervously about, mumbling incoherently. Patrons of the strip joint babbled to one another or to passers-by about what had happened. People from the Poodle Lounge below anxiously explained their disruption to whoever would listen. Wilson tried to absorb these several conversations at once. As they had crossed the street, he had heard the returning echo of the whistling roar that had preceded the commotion. The sound had vanished in an ill-determined direction, but he also listened for some repercussion.
Finally, he heard the muted crashes as large chunks of masonry began to break away from the other building, crashing into the alley. He grabbed his partner’s arm and led him off down the street in the general direction of the sound.
As they reached the nearest intersection, they heard from around the corner the terrifying roar as the rear quarter of the building gave way. Portions of the rear and side walls peeled away to expose the multilayered innards of the building as if it were a large misshapened doll house.
The two agents froze at the corner until the noise died away and then walked to the alley and peered down it toward the ruined building. Even in the dim light they could see the huge pile of rubble reaching above the second floor, torn chunks of concrete interspersed with crushed office furniture. Soon they were joined by others from the crowd in front of the strip joint.
The agents edged out of the crowd. Wilson began to start back toward the bar, but Spangler gestured in the opposite direction, and they walked to the intersection and turned.
They passed in front of the damaged building. The only sign of disturbance from this aspect was the group of a dozen or so janitorial workers who huddled nervously in the street, some talking loudly, many standing silent, a few still conspicuously clutching their brooms and mops.
The agents continued on around the block. Back on the first street they returned to their car. A squad car was parked in front of the strip joint entrance. From a distance, the wail of approaching sirens could be heard. The crowd had grown. They got in the car. Wilson put the key in the ignition, but paused before he turned it. He looked at his partner.
“What in god’s name do you suppose that was?”
Spangler was slumped down in his seat, staring straight ahead.
“Beats the living hell out of me. Never seen anything like it.”
“This ought to get headquarters lathered up. I have a feeling the boss was hoping nothing would happen, but now they’re going to want some physical evidence. From that collapsed building for sure, probably in that bar, too. I hope the locals don’t go mucking around and mess something up. No sense talking to the beat cop over there, but it’s not our business to go higher up. I hate to play dumb bunny, but I guess we need to call home for orders.”
“I need something,” Spangler growled. “Jesus!”
Wilson cranked the key and headed for the motel room they had rented out toward the airport.
Four days later, on a waning Friday afternoon, Vincent Martinelli hosted Isaacs for a celebratory drink. He put the bottle on the little bar built in behind his desk then swiveled in his chair and hoisted his double scotch and soda.
“L’chaim!”
The turning point in Nagasaki flashed in Isaacs’ mind.
“Kampai,” he said, returning the salute.
“Well, son-of-a-bitch, Bob,” Martinelli said. “Maybe old man Drefke’s not a complete knucklehead after all. For a while there I thought I was going to have to look for a new career, Kelly Girl or some such thing.”
Isaacs grinned. “I’ll tell you it was a relief to me when he agreed to read my memo. Up to that point he could easily have just said screw it and tossed the lot of us out.”
“Seriously,” Martinelli said, “I appreciate everything you did to save my butt.”
“For god’s sake, Vince, I got you into it.”
“I’m a big boy, I knew what I was doing. I appreciate you going to bat for me.”
“Well, I shouldn’t have gotten you involved. I’m relieved we got out okay.” They both stared into their drinks, a little embarrassed by this open exchange of gratitude.
Then Martinelli strove to recapture the spirit of celebration. “So how is friend McMasters taking all this?” he inquired in a jovial tone.
“He’s sulking.”
“Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”
They both chuckled.
“It really backfired on him,” Isaacs mused. “Not only did he not get me booted, but now Drefke’s made the whole investigation top priority and put me in charge. That’s really going to hurt him.”
“I don’t suppose it’s too much to hope that a little luster’s gone off his star?”
“My reading is that Drefke still appreciates his ability to run internal affairs, but he sees him in a different light now. McMasters had some rationale to argue Project QUAKER wasn’t agency business, but his forbidding me to work on it and then having me shadowed don’t look too hot in hindsight.”
“Ah, another toast then. To the future Deputy Director of Intelligence.” Martinelli raised his glass to Isaacs.
“C’mon, Vince,” Isaacs protested.
“You know it’s true.”
Isaacs was pleased, but embarrassed again. He recognized the timetable for his promotion had probably accelerated.
“So what’s happening in Dallas?” Martinelli inquired.
Isaacs laughed, glad to change the subject.
“You wouldn’t believe the confusion out there. Your basic case of conflicting authorities. The city cops are all over the place. The governor, and more importantly, his chief financial backers, are all from Dallas. They feel personally attacked, so the governor’s got a squad of investigators from the state intelligence bureau on the spot. That’s already enough to piss off the locals and make for a general madhouse because nobody in those outfits has any idea what it is they’re supposed to be investigating. Then we get into the act and that really stirs up the pot.
“I wanted to send in a few of my people on the quiet, but by the time Drefke made his decision to go ahead the place was swarming with the Texas troops. Drefke decided we had to follow the letter of the charter: no internal investigations.
“So we contacted the FBI and they sent a team of investigators. We told them what sort of information we want, but not why. We’re sitting on that till we better understand what’s going on. One of the things this accomplishes is to get the local FBI special agent riled up, first because he’s got these out-of-towners descending on him, and worse because he knows they’re work
ing for us, not even for the FBI.”
Isaacs chuckled again.
“To complete the confusion, the local cops and the state police have been ordered to cover up the FBI involvement and to absolutely avoid any hint leaking out that the Agency is interested. I doubt that will be totally hushed up, but it’s got them in a pickle.”
“Wow, real circus then,” Martinelli laughed. “I’ve got to sympathize with the local cops. If I’ve got the picture right, they’ve got the formal public responsibility for the investigation, but can only go through the motions while the spooks crawl in and out of the woodwork.”
“That’s about it,” Isaacs said. “Actually, we need to help them develop some cover story. They really are in a bind.”
“So are you learning anything in the midst of all this chaos?”
“A bit. We sent a team to check the site in Nagasaki. We had less trouble with the Japanese government than we’ve had with Texans.” Isaacs shook his head in amusement. “The physical evidence is very similar in the two cases. I put that in my preliminary report. That’s what convinced Drefke to let us all off with that bit of wrist-slapping today and give me the green light.”
“Another?”
“No thanks. I’ve got to get home. This whole thing has been tough on Muriel. I promised her a nice quiet dinner out.”
“Fair enough.” Martinelli grinned, but then a serious look settled over his eyes. “I read that copy you sent me earlier this week of your original memo outlining this mess. Frankly, I lost some sleep over it. Can you explain to me what the hell’s really happening?”
Isaacs shook his head wearily. “I’m relieved we’re off the hook and the investigation can go ahead full throttle, but the truth is I’m scared. I don’t know what we’re up against. There’s something damned serious going on.”
The Krone Experiment Page 22