MJ-12

by Michael J. Martinez

  “Colonel al-Hinnawi,” Copeland said as he practically jumped out of the vehicle. “I assume the President is here?”

  “He is, Mr. Copeland,” al-Hinnawi said gruffly. “Do you have him with you?”

  “We do, yes. Shall we?”

  Al-Hinnawi held up a hand. “Just Mr. Copeland and Mr. Saadeh.”

  Frank walked over to the Syrian and stood just close enough to make his point. “Colonel,” he said in Arabic, “with all due respect, we work for the United States, not you. My colleagues and I went through a lot to get him here safely, and we’re going to make sure he’s safe and sound inside, God willing.”

  The colonel narrowed his eyes and tried to stare Frank down for several long moments, and Frank had to admit, al-Hinnawi looked like one tough bastard. Finally, though, the colonel just turned on his heel and stalked inside. Frank motioned for everyone to come along. “Let’s go. It’s fine.”

  Cal looked at Frank with an eyebrow raised. “Don’t seem fine.” But he followed nonetheless, as did the rest of the Americans; they practically surrounded Saadeh on all sides as they entered the building and proceeded down a short, nondescript hallway lit by dusty lightbulbs from above, toward a nondescript door.

  When al-Hinnawi opened it, though, it was as if they were transported to a different world.

  The room they entered—likely once a conference room or some such—had been turned into something out of Arabian Nights. There were a couple of couches, several overstuffed chairs, and enough throw pillows to start a pillow fight. Tapestries hung from the walls and helped curtain the windows, and the lights came from beautiful Tiffany lamps. A hookah sat idle in one corner, and incense wafted through the air. In the middle of it all, seated in a leather club chair with his back to a massive bookshelf, Za’im was reading a book and smoking a cigarette. And on one of the couches …

  “Miss Silverman!” Cal breathed. “What are you doing here?”

  Zippy smiled. “Good to see you, Cal. The President asked me here.”

  Frank had to pick his jaw up off the floor. Immediately, he wondered how Zippy had managed to get into Za’im’s good graces so quickly, and was quickly ashamed of where his mind went. He didn’t know Zippy all that well but knew enough to figure she wasn’t the type to use her feminine wiles that way. Besides, she was dressed in a pretty plain dress suit, like you’d expect a reporter to wear—not a gun moll or something.

  “Did he, now?” Frank said. “Interesting.”

  Zippy merely shot him a look and moved her hand a fraction. I’ll explain later.

  Meanwhile, Za’im looked at Frank and Cal with surprise—and displeasure. “What is this?” he quietly asked al-Hinnawi in Arabic.

  “They insisted on accompanying him,” the colonel said, his frown deepening.

  To Za’im’s credit, his smile instantly returned. “My American friends,” he said in English. “I thank you, on behalf of the people of both Syria and Lebanon, for delivering our friend from danger. And Antoun Saadeh! Welcome, my friend!”

  Za’im got up and walked over to Saadeh, wrapping him up in a bear hug. Saadeh shot Frank a perplexed look but returned the hug nonetheless. “You do me honor, Mr. President.”

  “You honor me, Antoun,” Za’im said, his hands now on Saadeh’s shoulders. “I am saddened to hear of what happened in Beirut. Come, we have tea here. I wish for you to tell me all about it so that we may decide what happens next.”

  Tentatively, Saadeh allowed Za’im to lead him over to one of the couches, seating him next to Zippy, and the Syrian leader personally poured tea for the revolutionary. Copeland cleared his throat. “President Za’im, would it be all right if I stayed for this conversation? Perhaps I can offer further assistance.”

  Za’im looked over at Copeland and smiled. “I believe your compatriot here can best represent the interests of the United States in this matter. Do not worry. Mr. Saadeh is my guest, and I simply wish to hear his thoughts on the Syrian Social National Party and Lebanon.” Za’im handed Saadeh his tea, then walked over to Copeland, hand extended. “You have done Syria a great service, and I thank you. The friendship between the United States and Syria will endure for many years to come, thanks to you.”

  Meanwhile, Frank was staring holes into Zippy’s head, and she most definitely noticed. “I can do this, Frank,” she said in Hebrew, knowing that they were likely the only two Hebrew speakers in the room. “Long story. I’ll tell you later.”

  “You better,” Frank replied, then looked over to Copeland, who was staring back, seemingly looking for guidance. All Frank could do was nod.

  Copeland smiled and shook Za’im’s hand. “Very well, Mr. President. I’ll make an official visit in a few days. Thank you.”

  And with that, Copeland turned to go, pulling in Meade, Cal, and Frank with a look as he left. Frank turned around for one last glance at Za’im, sitting across from Zippy, and a more relaxed Saadeh, smiling and chatting in Arabic.

  “All right, then,” Frank said quietly as he closed the door behind him. “Hope you’re right.”

  LEBANON EXECUTES WOULD-BE DICTATOR

  Antoun Saadeh Pays Ultimate Price for Fascist Rebellion

  BEIRUT, Lebanon, July 8—The leader of the Syrian Socialist Revolutionary Party, Antoun Saadeh, was executed early this morning by firing squad after trying to mount a rebellion against the elected government of Lebanon.

  Saadeh’s revolutionary party, which had adopted a mythic “Greater Syria” racial platform similar to European fascism, attempted to overthrow the Lebanese government in an action on July 4, but expected support from mountain tribes and Druze separatists never arrived, and Saadeh was driven from the capital toward Syria, where elements of his party still exist.

  Saadeh was arrested outside of Damascus the next day by police under the direction of President Husni al-Za’im, and was returned to Lebanon, where he was immediately placed on trial for high treason against the government. Authorities here report that at least 500 of Saadeh’s followers are now under arrest, and several of them testified against him at the trial, confirming that the rebellion, which cost the lives of at least one military officer, was conducted under Saadeh’s instructions.

  Saadeh’s defense attorney had asked for a delay in the proceedings in order to study the government claims, but the request was denied and the matter brought before a military tribunal. The guilty verdict was rendered last night and confirmed by Lebanese President Bechara El Khoury.

  The trial and execution were conducted in secrecy, with the news of Saadeh’s conviction and death announced only today. Authorities here explained that this was done for security reasons.

  A representative of President El Khoury thanked the Syrian government for their cooperation, stating that the removal of Saadeh and his “fascist party” would help foster peace in the Middle East. Syrian President Za’im, speaking to reporters in Damascus, echoed the sentiment.

  “The governments of the region must come together in mutual trust and support,” Za’im said. “War recently ravaged Europe under fascist regimes. We will not allow this to happen here.”

  July 9, 1949

  How well do you know Zipporah Silverman?” Hillenkoetter asked Maggie and Mrs. Stevens as they sat in his cramped, surprisingly plain office in Foggy Bottom.

  The two women looked at each other and shrugged almost simultaneously. “Not really well, but I did some ops with her,” Maggie replied. “Nice enough. Good for intel work, not so much the rough stuff. Kind of a natural actress, and her Empowerment is really useful. Why do you ask?”

  “You’re not cleared for it,” Hillenkoetter replied. “All I can tell you right now is you might be heading back to Syria soon.”

  Maggie nodded, then pointed to the newspaper on Hillenkoetter’s desk. “Looks like something went down in Beirut,” she noted. “Zippy’s involved?”

  Hillenkoetter smirked. “See, why can’t you break open the Forrestal ring as quick as that?” he asked. “Speaking of
which, how’s that coming along?”

  Maggie looked over at Mrs. Stevens, who referred to the legal pad on her lap. “They’re being careful. No documents are changing hands. We’ve got some interesting conversations on tape, but actual evidence that Forrestal was leaking confidential information about MAJESTIC-12 is thin and mostly circumstantial. They’ll just claim them to be unsubstantiated rumors or something silly like that. And you know, of course, that we can’t be the ones to catch them in the act, with us being Variants and all.”

  Hillenkoetter nodded. “Who’s in on it that we know of?”

  “Hoover and Wisner for sure. Trying to get more dirt on McCarthy, but nothing solid yet,’” Maggie replied.

  “Might be able to help you there,” Hillenkoetter said. “Just got a call from General Vandenberg today. One more for your list—Louis Johnson.”

  “The new Defense Secretary?” Mrs. Stevens asked. “Isn’t he already cleared for MAJESTIC-12?”

  “Nope. The President specifically kept him out of it,” Hillenkoetter said. “Louis was nominated as a budget-cutter, not a war-fighter. Everything’s very political with him, and more politics is the last thing we need to throw into this equation.”

  Maggie smiled. “You don’t trust him with this.”

  “No, I don’t, and thankfully, neither does the President. But apparently, Johnson’s caught wind of it anyway. Sent a memo to Vandenberg this morning requesting more information. Vandenberg told him to take it up with the President, which was the exact right response.”

  Mrs. Stevens looked down at her legal pad a moment, then shut her eyes. Maggie knew that this was a sign that her wheels were turning. She looked up and smiled. “You’re thinking McCarthy tipped off Johnson.”

  “Not bad, Mrs. Stevens,” Hillenkoetter replied. “Louis has met with Joe several times up on the Hill, part of the dance he has to do to get a budget passed. Joe also knows Hoover pretty well.”

  “And you sound like you have a plan, sir,” Maggie noted.

  Hillenkoetter leaned back in his chair and smiled. “I just might. Care to help me pull it off?”

  Maggie and Mrs. Stevens traded a look. “Will it get us closer to being exonerated in Forrestal’s death?” Maggie asked.

  “Can’t hurt your chances.”

  Before Hillenkoetter could continue, there was a rap on the door; a young, bespectacled woman poked her head into the office. “Sir, I have Commander Wallace on the line. You’re really gonna want to take it.”

  Hillenkoetter nodded and picked up the phone. “Go ahead, Commander.” Maggie could hear a tinny, rapid-fire voice on the other end of the line but little else.

  “What do you mean, he’s gone?” Hillenkoetter barked. He then looked up at the two women. “Out. Now.”

  * * *

  Danny hung up the phone and wiped the sweat from his brow with his good hand. It wasn’t from the desert heat. “Well, that was horrible,” he said, looking over at Hamilton. “Tell me you have something, because a former Nazi scientist under house arrest doesn’t just up and disappear from the most secure military facility in the world.”

  Hamilton stood in front of Wallace’s desk in formal at-ease position. “I have an unconfirmed report of … something unusual. Sir.”

  “Shit, just tell me,” Danny groused. “It’s not like the unusual is … well, all that unusual around here.” Danny held up his injured hand for emphasis. He’d taken to wearing a glove on it just to keep the staring to a minimum.

  Hamilton cleared his throat. “One of the MPs on duty last night said he saw some kind of … shadow … moving oddly around Schreiber’s door.”

  That prompted Danny to jump to his feet. “What kind of shadow?”

  “Very dark. And … kind of man-shaped.”

  “Did he think to check on Schreiber after that?” Danny demanded.

  “No, sir. He thought it was just a trick of the light. The other MP didn’t see it. I almost wasn’t going to mention it to you at all, sir. It just sounded so … ridiculous.”

  Danny came around the desk and headed for the door, clapping Hamilton on the shoulder and pulling him along. “All right. That’s something, at least. Are all the Variants accounted for?”

  “Yes, sir,” Hamilton replied. “I’ve got every team locked down; null-fields are on.”

  “Good. If I had to bet, I’d say we had an outside Variant visitor last night,” Danny said as he hustled down the hallway toward the door. “How many more null-generators do we have?”

  “Only a handful. We’re spread pretty thin.”

  Danny stopped at one of the labs, where Bronk was testing blood samples—Danny’s blood. “Det! I need you to stop what you’re doing. Gather every set of hands you can find. We need more null-generators, stat. I need the entire base covered.”

  “What’s happening?” Bronk asked, brow furrowed.

  “Don’t know yet, but we need this place secured,” Danny replied before rushing down the hall again, Hamilton keeping pace behind him. “Deploy whatever we have left around the vortex. I don’t want anybody sneaking in there. We need a car with a radio. Not a jeep.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Danny burst out of the administrative building and headed for the motor pool. “We are going to Vegas.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s the only place within a full day’s drive that has a bus station and an airport. Let’s just hope our scientist doesn’t have too much of a head start.”

  * * *

  Every single thing that is wrong with America is in this very room, Kurt Schreiber thought as he looked behind him at the throngs of people, drinks in hand, surrounding slot machines and gaming tables, taking their hard-earned money and throwing it away on the slim chance they’d be rewarded with instant riches.

  Some, certainly, didn’t need instant riches but rather entertained themselves with the notion that they had enough money to throw away on gambling, expensive meals, Cuban cigars, and alcohol—so much alcohol. These men and women, in fine suits and whorish dresses, grew fat and drunk and cared for nothing except their own debaucheries.

  And then there were the desperate ones. The men whose suits were threadbare and stained, plugging pennies into mechanisms that ate them greedily, only spitting out just enough winnings to keep the poor souls in their chairs, to prolong the agony of losing their pittance salaries or, worse, their last dollars. And the women were doing the same when they weren’t trying to make “friends” and earn a few dollars.

  How in the name of God did these … people … manage to defeat the greatest army ever assembled? How did these mongrel bands of malcontent wastrels reduce Berlin to rubble? How did they even manage to conceive of the atom bomb, much less build one without destroying themselves in the process?

  Schreiber sipped at his ginger ale, unwilling to join them in their descent. He had better things to do. And yet his contact was late, and he was getting worried.

  “Why so glum, chum?”

  Schreiber turned to his right to see two men in tuxedos sitting down at the bar next to him. One was tall, handsome, and ruddy, with a smile that no doubt made the ladies there swoon. The other—the one who’d spoken in a rather squeaky, grating voice—was shorter and more awkward, with a prominent nose and teeth that looked like they wanted to escape his face somehow. Schreiber had half a mind to oblige them.

  Schreiber sighed. “I’m waiting for someone,” he said, trying to bury his accent.

  “I bet it’s a girl,” the other man said in a soothing baritone. “Hope she ain’t stood you up, pal. Hey, barkeep! Coupla gin and tonics.”

  “Yes, me too,” Schreiber said neutrally. “It’s been a very long day.”

  “Aww, it’ll be OK, pal,” the short one said. “If she comes, then she’s worth the wait. And if she don’t, she ain’t worth nothin’, right, Dino?”

  “That’s right,” the tall one said. “And when she does get here, you play a little hard-to-get with her, all right? L
et her know it ain’t good to keep you waiting. You gotta keep these dames on their toes; otherwise, they’ll walk all over you.”

  The short one laughed. “Hey, you should know. What’s that on your back?”

  Dino contorted himself trying to look over his shoulder. “What? What’s on my back?”

  “Footprints. High heels, size six!” The short one burst out laughing, making perhaps the most grating noise Schreiber had ever heard in his life.

  To his surprise, Dino laughed as well. “Hey, that’s not bad! You gotta write that down.”

  But the other man had already produced a small notebook and pen from his jacket pocket and was scribbling away. “Definitely. Lemme work on it some. Timing’s not there yet.”

  Schreiber downed his drink like a shot. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.”

  “Aww, wait a second, pal!” the tall one said, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a couple slips of paper. “We owe you for the joke. Here! On the house!”

  If for no other reason than to be rid of these men, Schreiber took the slips and stuffed them in his coat pocket. “Yes, thank you.” He then quickly walked off before the two buffoons could engage in any more mindless banter.

  It didn’t seem like his contact would show up after all, which left only plan B. That meant going from the Fabulous Flamingo, where he’d spent his entire day sipping sodas, and heading to the bus station. His ultimate destination would be New York, a city perfect for anonymity, where he would have his pick of international consulates to choose from.