by Terry James
Chapter 8
Morning poured into the bedroom, spilling across the thick, rose-red carpet and bathing the end of the flower-patterned bedspread with sunlight. Holding his hand over his eyes, Jacob fought to gain consciousness. The music of the birds helped draw his senses into focus.
"We certainly didn't act like someone who so desperately misses our lady friend back home!" The cheery female voice pulled him the rest of the way from his sleep. "I must say, I certainly missed none of my friends last evening!"
Fredria VanHorne stood over him smiling, holding a cup and saucer.
Jacob looked at his wrist for his watch; not finding it, he glanced around the unfamiliar surroundings. "What time is it?"
"Eight-thirty." She handed him the coffee when he had adjusted to receive it. "How do you like my little slice of the upper world?" She sat on the bed and swept the air with a slender arm.
"These days, I don't think there's any place you can find this much sunlight on the surface. How's it done?"
"Special lighting effects, recordings and scents created by some of my scientist friends. I wake every morning this way. Well, not exactly this way — but as far as the illusion of being on the surface is concerned." Fredria smiled coquettishly, then lay beside him. "I don't suppose I could keep you as my pet? To make my little place here just perfect?"
"Right now I can't think of a more desirable life's calling." He put the cup aside and took her in his arms and kissed her. "But it's a luxury neither of us can afford. I presume Herr Krimhler will require some help in saving the world."
"You are envious." Fredria laughed and cradled his face in her hands.
"Maybe a little... yes."
"Of his wealth? Of the admiration people, particularly the ladies, have for him?" she said, still amused.
"Those two aren't mutually exclusive, are they?"
"It is my opinion that everything, with men, comes down to a matter of virility. You invariably link all accomplishments and failures to the ability to perform sexually."
"I didn't know your areas of expertise include psychology," Jacob interrupted.
"A woman doesn't have to be a psychologist to know the mind of a man. It is so obvious that you more often reason with your libido than with logic. That's not altogether bad, of course." She kissed his cheek lightly.
"And Herr Krimhler?"
"What about him?"
"How's his reasoning ability?"
"To get to the point you will eventually reach after all of this sparring, I have no idea how good a lover Herrlich Krimhler might be."
"Come now, Fredria. You've never...?"
"No. I've never!" she interrupted with playful irritation in her voice. "As a matter of fact, we girls have wondered among ourselves for quite some time why none of us have had the pleasure of his... attentions. He seems to have no interest, I am sorry to have to say. So automatically he is homosexual, right?" Her blue-green eyes flashed suspicion when she put the question.
"Did I say that?"
"Yes. With your thoughts... thinking with your libido. All things involving achievement translate into varying degrees of virility. Herrlich Krimhler has intellect, power, prestige, and limitless financial resources. He should be the great lover, but he seems to have no interest in women, therefore he must be homosexual. Do you want to know why there's the great number of homosexual males today? The problem is created by just that attitude. They are terrified they cannot live up to the standard-- so they retreat into a less competitive, less threatening sexual world."
"I give up. He must not be homosexual. You've convinced me." He shrugged submission.
"You are obstinate, Jacob Zen!" She loosened her hair from its swirled pile atop her head, letting it tumble about her shoulders to full length. "Now show me again how you think only with your libido."
Thoughts ricocheted in his head — kept pounding the same question over and over. Who was she? He closed his eyes, feeling her warmth, scenting her feminine essence, his apprehensions giving way not altogether grudgingly. Before losing control, those inner words came again, unmistakably clear. "Watch that girl, Son. Remember Delilah, Salome, Mata Hari and all the rest..."
He was still mulling Conrad Wilson's admonition three-and-a-half hours later while he packed a gray blazer into a clothes bag. Karen's pretty face formed a translucent backdrop against which a hundred other thoughts flashed somewhere in the center of his brain. Trying to shrug off the depression as merely a feeling of guilt for having enjoyed the time spent with Fredria VanHorne, he rationalized that he and Karen had long ago made a pact. They agreed that sex with others was not wrong unless the physical union forged emotional bonds, damaging their own love for each other. The theory was okay; the practice was flawed.
A more profound rationale, one whose source he couldn't pinpoint, dissolved the barrier separating emotion from biological act. One sure thing emerged. Though he believed he had truly struggled to be the Renaissance man, a believer in the New Age Reformation, he would be hurt, even enraged, should Karen be with another man. A more deeply seated worry troubled him while he, without thinking about it, placed clothing and toiletry articles into the bag. The feeling had been with him even before arriving at Naxos, where one might expect to be watched to some extent. It was, since the encounter with Hugo Marchek, a sense of having lost all privacy, of being constantly monitored.
"Almost ready, are you?" Conrad Wilson said, then put an index finger to his lips, forewarning that unwanted eyes and ears watched and listened. Jacob, who stopped packing when Wilson entered the room, was quick to go along.
The old diplomat moved to Jacob's side by the bed. "Our message to the President can be one of optimism, Jake," Wilson said aloud, handing the younger man a leather portfolio. "I've prepared a briefing for him that pretty well sums up my feelings on the matter of tri-level participation, and what I think our part in it might evolve to."
He then crowded next to Jacob and began helping him put articles into the suitcase, a move to conceal the message he whispered. "There are mikes and cameras on us. There's no place we can meet right now where they can't watch us, so read those papers somewhere you won't be seen. You'll have to figure out where. In them, I've suggested a place we can meet just before you leave for D.C."
Wilson resumed normal volume. "Of course, you can give the President your observations, as well. Tell him how you feel about things."
"I'm sure we pretty much agree on things. But thanks. I'll add whatever observations I can, that I feel might help, of course."
"Good boy! Then I'll see you off at fourteen-thirty hours," the old man said, opening the door and turning to face him.
"See you then, Uncle Conrad."
So this was to be the system that would save humanity from itself, he thought when Wilson left him. His suspicions were not unfounded after all. He was not paranoid! Cooperation among peoples was not merely to be sought, it would be assured. Demanded! At whatever price required. Would western man now have his own KGB-style watchdogs? Even more efficient than the former Soviet terror-police because new, super-sensitive eavesdropping technologies would perform the surveillance? Would the citizen of the New Order have his own electronic Berlin Wall surrounding him, suffocating his every grope for lost liberty?
The realization waved over him in a hot flood of truth. The only difference between the Naxos cabal and the White House Project Eagle planners was the fact that the Unified European States and Herrlich Krimhler had been quicker to set up the machinery that would assure a successful grab for power. Was not a grab for power also the purpose of Project Eagle? Under either leadership, the individual would pay dearly for existence in the society to come.
For now, he must get a look into the portfolio without letting the snoops know about Wilson's note to him. He surveyed the room, hoping those watching thought he was attempting to find misplaced personal items instead of suspecting his real purpose--that of trying to locate surveillance devices. They were well hidden, probably
within the vents at each corner of the room.
The closet might be the answer! Several articles of clothing remained hanging there, and that small space off the short hallway would be easy enough to give a quick check for surveillance equipment. There must be an excuse for spending time in the closet however, because removing three or four shirts and a couple of suits from the rack would take only seconds; it would take longer to read his foster father's instructions.
He snapped the suitcase shut, lifted it and the portfolio from the bed, then set both against the small closet's back wall. While he fiddled with the clothes on the rack, he let his eyes roam the ceiling, floor and walls. Nothing in the closet that looked like snooping lenses or microphones... No vents... Now to buy time to accomplish his task.
After gathering all of the hangers at once and lifting the clothing from the racks, he let them slip from his hands, causing them to cover the suitcases and portfolio. He cursed angrily, loud enough for those watching and listening to hear, then knelt, supposedly to gather the mess, but letting his hand wander beneath the clothing and onto the leather folder. After unsnapping the single latch, Jacob slipped his hidden right hand into the case, gathering all the papers he could feel. With his left hand, he continued to pretend he was trying to get the clothing together, all the while taking care to keep his back turned to the room outside the closet doorway in order to block the view of those watching. He hurriedly read the instructions Wilson had paper-clipped to the thick briefing report to the President; they were scrawled in the diplomat's handwriting on a single yellow sheet:
At 12:15, go to Core Chamber Z-391. You will be given a package by someone who's on our team, I am assured that you won't be monitored while you are in that area, but you will, most likely, be watched up to that point. Find an excuse to go to the general area of that chamber, then get lost and stray into Z-391. You will be given instructions by our operative at that time. Also, you and I must grab a few minutes of privacy before you leave for D. C. Good luck, Son.
"Is everything okay with you, Mr. Zen?" The harsh, German-accented voice startled Jacob, who managed to quickly stuff the papers back into the case while concealing his activity from the man who tried to look over his shoulder. "May I help you?"
"No. I've about got it."
Jacob squatted over the jumble of clothing, effectively blocking the prying man's view. He snapped the case shut, draped the clothing over his forearm and hand that held the case, rose to his feet and walked to the bed where he dumped the load, taking care to see that the apparel covered the case.
Jacob could sense that the man in the orange and black jumpsuit uniform was verging on desperation, wanting to satisfy his curiosity about the portfolio. It gave him pleasure to keep the man, whom he was sure had been instructed to be subtle in his investigation, from getting his way. And, he was not about to let the invader go verbally unpunished.
"Is it standard operating procedure here to walk in on someone without being invited?"
"I was told you would require assistance with your luggage."
"I made no such request. Even if I had, does that excuse you from the common courtesy of knocking?"
"I apologize, Sir. Please forgive the intrusion." The words were insincere, practiced; the tone was as harsh as the accent. The man was sent to see what the camera could not, when Jacob had stayed in the closet longer than they felt necessary. He was pleased he had so easily outmaneuvered them. No doubt there would be cameras and microphones put in the closets to prevent guests from pulling such stunts in the future.
By noon, he had figured his plan of action for rendezvousing at the spot designated by his foster father. It would be accomplished under the pretext of again trying to get into contact with Karen by Holophone.
According to the Naxos complex's schematic layout he had been given as part of his orientation, the two chambers — the one housing the Communications Center and the Core Chamber Z-391 — were in close enough proximity to make it possible for someone not familiar with the complex to, as Wilson had suggested in his instructional note, stray into the wrong area.
At 12:09, an orange-uniformed guard approached him while he walked with briefcase in hand along a marble-floored corridor, feigning confusion.
"May I help you... Mr. Zen?" the man asked after looking at the identification badge pinned to the breast pocket of Jacob's coveralls.
"Isn't Communications around here somewhere?" Jacob's words rang hollow in his own ears, but were apparently convincing enough for the Naxos security man.
"Down the corridor and two turns to the right, Sir," the man instructed, stepping closer to Jacob and pointing. "Z-three ninety-one will be on your right after the first turn."
The man's whispered words caused Jacob to jerk in surprise before realizing this was his contact. He hoped his expression hadn't betrayed them both.
"Thanks for your help," Jacob said out loud, then headed in the direction the man had pointed. He had done a credible job of appearing confused before opening the door marked Z-391, he tried to convince himself while ducking to keep from bumping his head against what looked like insulated piping that networked at eye-level throughout the room. The dimly lit chamber, he analyzed, was apparently a pumping station for one or more sections of the underground complex.
The thumping sound grew louder the farther he threaded his way toward the room's center, the noise finally stabilizing at a barely tolerable level.
He thought he heard something in addition to the pumping, like a clanking of metal against metal. Looking beneath the congestion of piping, he saw the guard who had stopped him in the hallway motioning to him from an opening in the wall just above the floor. Jacob squatted beneath the pipes to hear the man, who handed him a rectangular package wrapped in brown paper.
"Whatever happens, don't let this material out of your sight." The man's controlled tone told Jacob this was a career professional, most likely CIA.
"This is to be given only to the President, and only at the time he designates. You are to wait for his call at the White House, where you'll be staying until he calls for you. It's not likely you'll be personally searched, but once you leave U.E.S. Headquarters in Brussels, anything goes. Stay around people, that is, crowds, as much as possible. Do not let them isolate you. They'll want to get a look inside that case... might even kill for it... Make it look like a mugging. Don't give them the chance. The best way to prevent that is by staying public. You will be okay once you reach the White House, and our people will watch out for you once you get to Andrews."
The man's eyes were deadly calm, unblinking. It was easy for him to speak of life and death in terms of mission over human factors. "Remember, Mr. Zen, only President Farley is to receive this material. Absolutely no one else. Do you understand all of this?"
"Yes. But what if the case is snatched? I mean, I'm not a trained courier."
"You don't have to be." The man reached behind him into the wall's recess, and brought out a small canvas pouch. "Here's all you need to do the job." He handed it to Jacob. "It contains a special pair of courier cuffs you will attach to the case and to your wrist." He took the cuffs from the bag. "They look like any other set of cuffs, but they're not, I assure you." He held up the gleaming cuffs so Jacob could see them in the scant light. "They have a timer lock that can only be safely released before the preset time, by a certain combination of things, which only you and I and the President will know about. If the cuffs are forced open before that time, the timer, through remote electronics, activates a device inside the package I gave you to give the President. That device has enough explosive charge to destroy the package and anyone or anything within 10 or 15 feet of it."
"But what if someone removes the handle of the briefcase, or cuts it open?"
"In that case, when they open the package and unfasten a latch to get to the materials, the device will explode without the help of the timer in the cuffs. When the timer opens the cuffs at the preset time, there can no longer be an ele
ctronically activated detonation, but the latch on the box is still a functioning detonator."
"There's no way this thing can be safely taken off my wrist until the automatic timer unlocks it at the preset time?"
"The key," The man held up a key, then handed it to Jacob, "will unlock the cuffs. At the same time, just as when they are forced open, the cuffs activate the countdown to detonation. Snapping the cuffs together again shuts off the electronic detonator."
"How long from the time they are unlocked or pried open until the package explodes?"
"Three minutes, exactly — 180 seconds. Snapping the cuffs back together after they are opened by key automatically restores three full minutes of time until detonation. However, if the cuffs have been forced open, then for some reason snapped back together, the time will continue counting down until detonation."
"Then the countdown can't be stopped once the cuffs are forced open?"
"There's only one way this device can be disarmed, totally," the man said clinically, reaching behind him again and bringing out a blue metal rectangular box. "The materials in the package you are to give the President are inside a box identical to this one," he said, holding it in the palm of his hand. "This is the latch." He pointed with an index finger to a stainless steel mechanism near where the lid of the box overlapped the box's deeper portion in a tight fit. "As you can see, it sticks out from the box to some extent and looks to be a latch you must pull up to open. If you pull straight up, like so..." He put his thumb under the latch and pushed up. "...there is an instantaneous explosion; it is, in effect, a manual detonator. But if you push three times inwardly..." He did so and the lid of the box sprang open, "...you do two things — disarm the explosive device and open the box. If you then re-close the lid, you rearm the device. Have you got all this straight?"
"I'd better have," Jacob joked feebly. It was all quite clever and spy-like, but why was he chosen to deliver the volatile (in more ways than one) package to the President? He supposed he should be excited over the honor; at least he should be nervous in anticipation of the hazardous mission. He was neither; probably, he pondered, the result of having too much happen to him, too recently. "Yes. I understand."