Reaching inside the Beemer’s center console, he removed a compact automatic pistol. He checked the safety before slipping the black weapon into the breast pocket of his jacket. No sense taking unnecessary risks.
He turned left along the water-front. Continuing north, he threaded his way between warehouses and dilapidated tenements that stretched down to the daunting granite blocks of the seawall. He came to an abrupt stop before an aged and crumbling red brick building. He looked up the façade at floor after floor of arched windows reaching into the prematurely darkening sky.
Above street level, the six-story building offered run-down efficiency apartments to those chiseling out a bleak existence on the wharfs that stretched along the rocky coast. Below the sidewalk, and hidden from the scrutiny of passers-by, the antiquated walls housed a small basement bar/nightclub. The low-end establishment opened nightly to a collection of hard-scrabble drifters and local toughs who wandered in from the surrounding docks and the ships moored along side.
The acid already brewing in his stomach flared hotly as he briefly considered the safety of his expensive sports car, the sleek machine now parked under a dim streetlight along the curb. He double checked the car’s alarm system and crossed the frozen pavement.
Arriving at the non-descript entrance to the underground watering hole, Murphy watched four unsavory characters emerge from the bar and stagger up the concrete steps to street level. Wobbling to a stop just long enough to light up their foul-smelling clove cigarettes, the polluted men tossed ribald comments back and forth, reveling at the auspicious beginning of their evening of alcohol-soaked debauchery. He shook his head in disgust and descended the steps.
The bar’s heavy door closed with a deep rumble, the noise seeming uncommonly loud as he entered. The darkness quickly enveloped him while the reverberating echo caused a collection of bleary eyes to momentary swivel in his direction. The hair on the back of his neck bristled in fear but the uncomfortable attention of the crowd lasted only a second or two before his presence blended into the scene, fading into alcohol-fogged insignificance.
Taking a step further, his senses were immediately assaulted by a suffocating cloud of thick tobacco smoke while his stomach recoiled at the rank smell of stale beer.
God, what a dump!
Feet sticking to the floor as he moved, Murphy settled onto a tall stool at the heavy oak bar, leaning on the brass rail.
The rock music coming from the ancient jukebox in the corner carried across the cold space, filling the room. The dim lighting created heavy shadows, the darkness concealing tables tucked into alcoves around the perimeter. Unintelligible snippets of muted conversations reached his ears, drifting on the smoky air.
He took in the dregs of humanity sitting at the other stools along the bar, the disheveled occupants already drinking heavily and talking boisterously among themselves. At the booth in the corner, he saw a trio of tired hookers sipping from large glasses. One garishly dressed woman tossed her head back in peals of manufactured laughter, desperately plying her much-abused wares to the men hidden in the darkness.
Off to his right, a battered black and white T.V. rested on a dusty shelf behind the bar, glowing with flickering light. Several patrons watched the hockey game playing on the screen, their bloodshot eyes fixed in single-minded concentration.
Turning back to the bartender, Murphy ordered a martini, drawing a contemptuous glare from the massive, gruff looking man.
“That’ll be six-fifty.” The balding, tattooed man’s eyes hardened in antipathy while he created the concoction.
Continuing to scan the room, Murphy dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the bar for the drink and removed the toothpick from the glass, extracting the pierced olive with his teeth.
A sudden start rippled through him as a loud cheer erupted from the small crowd now gathered around the television.
Guess Boston scored. He thought.
He checked his watch and noted Temple should arrive in the next few minutes. Adrenaline running rampant in his veins, Murphy downed his drink in an effort to steady his shaky nerves and ordered a second. He better show up!
Three minutes later, a tall, heavy-set man pulled out the stool next to his and sat down. The expression on the newcomer’s face bent into a swirling mix of anger, arrogance and blatant condescension.
The man opened the conversation in a harsh rasp, dispensing with any pleasantries while brushing a few errant flakes of snow from the shoulders of his greatcoat.
“Okay, I’m here.” Temple said, his dark, beady eyes darting around the room intently, looking for any sign they were being overheard. “Make this quick. I have work to do.”
Murphy cleared his throat softly, pushing his adrenaline-fueled anxiety to the back of his mind. “All right. I will.”
The new arrival interjected. “And this better be good. I have to tell you, I’m not too thrilled with you dragging me out to this dump in the first place,” the man’s overly polite tone did nothing but further telegraph his overt displeasure. “Do you have any real conception of how dangerous this is?”
Murphy took a quick sip of his drink before answering. “I told you, it’s worth it.”
Temple drew a deep breath, leaning forward to close the gap between the two men. “You idiot!” he hissed. “I can’t believe…”
He broke off his rebuke in mid-sentence as the bartender approached, tossing Murphy a withering stare that made him cringe.
“What can I get for you?” the bartender interrupted. “We’ve got dollar Bud drafts on special and…”
Temple cut him off, his courteous tone not carrying any of the anger he was directing at Murphy only seconds before. “Draft sounds good. Thank you.”
Seeing the bartender depart, Temple turned back, eyes now hard chips of black coal. “I told you not to waste my time,” Temple said. “So, get to it already.”
Murphy could see the anger bubbling hotly just below the surface and held his stare for several seconds, pausing to collect his thoughts at the same time. This has to be just right.
“You know a Dr. Jennifer Ryan…researcher…She made a break-through…a big one.”
MurphyHMurphy waited, taking a sip of his drink and letting the other man digest the intentionally vague revelation.
“So she did, did she?” Temple replied, his demeanor still non-committal, but somewhat less combative. “What kind of break-through?”
Time to set the hook. He thought, heartbeat thudding steadily in his ears.
“She calls it ‘particle manipulation technology’. Ring any bells?”
“You’re talking about cold fusion,” Temple said, shaking his head and giving a small wave of dismissal. “It can’t be done.”
“I’ve heard about cold fusion. This is different. I did some reading and Ryan’s project relies on capturing the energy released from radio-active waste. According to her papers, this is totally different from anything anybody’s ever even tried before.”
Temple cocked one eyebrow in skepticism. “I’ve read her papers on this and I’m telling you, it won’t work.”
He stood, ready to leave. “I told you not to waste my time, you idiot.”
Murphy pressed on in hushed tones, in spite of the other man’s obvious reticence. “Phillip, sit down. Please. I don’t know what you read, but she really did it. The little bitch really did it. Now, for the right price, you can own it.”
A long, protracted silence filled the space between the men, making the air thick and stagnant with tension.
Temple, sliding back onto the barstool, finally answered. “How do I know this is legitimate?”
Murphy breathed an audible sigh of relief, the small sound masked by the background noise of the club. “I’m telling you, it’s for real. I’ve got the video to prove it.”
Murphy drew a cell phone from his pocket and touched the front. “I took this while she was running the last test.”
He slid the small device along the bar. Temple picked it up and touched the scre
en, activating the video player. He stared at the display in mild disinterest for several seconds. “So, what? You tapped her lab, big deal.”
“Keep watching. Take a look at the readouts she’s checking,” Murphy said. “You recognize that equipment?”
Temple’s eyes grew wide as the video progressed. He took a large swig of his beer. “This can’t be real. The power level on those readouts is tremendous.”
Murphy dared a thin smile. “I told you it’d be worth your time.”
Temple expelled a heavy sigh as he handed back the phone. “All right. Assuming that what I just saw is real, and I’m not convinced it is, what do you want?”
Murphy’s pulse spiked, blood racing at the thought of how much money rode on his next words. Gently now, not too much…and not too little.
“What do I want? Easy, I want a simple transaction. I bring you the plans for the design and you pay me…ten million dollars.”
“Ten million dollars,” Temple chuckled, again rising to leave. “That’s not even remotely funny…even for you.”
Murphy turned, swiveling his seat away from the older man. He leaned forward, elbows on the bar, as if he had not a care in the world.
“This is no joke Phillip. This project is real and I can get it. Question is, do I sell it you, or do I sell it to someone else?”
His heart nearly stopped beating as the silence stretched on, his internal clock ticking off several excruciating seconds.
Enough screwing around…time to close the deal!
He rotated on the barstool until he was again facing Temple. “Look, you saw the video…you know Ryan…you know this is real. You’ll be rich beyond fantasy. Ten million is chump-change…in the grand scheme of things.”
Temple’s cold gaze burned as he regained his seat once more. “Listen Sean, the negotiations are over. Two million is all this project is worth…and all I'm going to pay. If that’s not acceptable, you can take your offer to someone else.”
Murphy sipped his drink, eyebrows knitted in tight angles as he pretended to consider his options.
Temple continued. “I think you’ll want to take my offer for two reasons. One; you know you won’t get a better price and two, you know you can trust my…err…discretion.”
Murphy took another small sip of his drink, contemplating his next move in this little game of chess that would decide his future.
Temple broke the stilted silence. “You have three seconds to make a decision. Take it or leave it. One…two…”
Downing another sip of his drink, Murphy chuckled. “Don't get your panties in a bunch, I'll take it. But I want five million. I want half a million in cash up front, the rest wire transferred to an offshore account upon delivery.”
After several tense moments, the owner of Temple Corporation, the premier electronics company in the Eastern United States, closed the deal. “Done. I’ll have your first installment by the close of business tomorrow.”
Murphy rose and leaned in closer to Temple, his voice a whisper. “Excellent. I’ll call you later and tell you when and where. Be ready with my money.”
Temple downed the dregs of his beer as he watched Murphy walk toward the exit. He murmured a curse, unheard over the background noise of the bar. “Five million or ten million, who cares?” he hissed. “You’ll never live to spend any of it.”
Chapter Seven
The Lincoln super-stretch limousine crawled through the congested streets of Boston’s North End, making its way back toward Phillip Temple’s office.
Inside the warm confines of the giant land yacht, Temple thought about the meeting with Murphy and what it could mean for his company.
This technology could be very useful indeed. If it works like he said, it would be a discovery of monumental proportions. This could be a really big score…if I play my cards right.
He scratched his chin for a moment in contemplation.
How did he get his hands on this anyway? For years the little worm gives me tidbits…then all of a sudden he comes to me looking for five million dollars. What a joke.
Reaching into his jacket pocket he withdrew a long, thin hand-rolled cigar. A diamond-encrusted lighter flared brightly in the dark car as he puffed the expensive tobacco to life. He watched the thick, aromatic smoke curl from the glowing red tip as the car crawled forward.
He didn't trust Murphy, only a moron would, but the possible payoff was so huge he couldn't risk being wrong. He knew Ryan from her published research and hearing her lecture. He also knew that she was a brilliant scientist possessing a tremendous intellect. That alone made her dangerous.
The more he thought about the particle manipulation project, the more that it made sense.
If anyone could develop a totally new type of power source in such a short time, it’s Ryan.
He despised her. She was brilliant, respected…everything he was not.
The woman could fall off a ladder and come up with an anti-gravity device on the way down.
He considered this woman very dangerous.
If anyone’s going to bring this to market, it’s going to be me.
It didn't take long for him to decide what to do. He had to remove her as a threat.
He tapped the smoked glass between himself and the driver. The chauffeur touched a button on the dash and the partition slowly disappeared into the seatback. The driver’s steely glance met his in the rear-view mirror.
The enormous black man behind the wheel spoke, the voice deep and gravely. “Yes sir?”
“Take the expressway…and step on it!”
“Of course, sir.”
The driver tromped on the accelerator and cut the wheel hard, banking the huge black automobile into a left turn while the speedometer quickly climbed towards 60 mph.
Back in his office a few minutes later, Temple sat behind his antique writing desk, his mind racing as he assembled the pieces necessary to put his devious plan into motion. He knew he must do whatever was necessary to get his hands on the particle manipulation project. He also realized that while he had to solve the immediate problem first; acquisition, the next step was to find a buyer, and he had just the right person in mind.
He buzzed his secretary and issued a few instructions. Waiting expectantly while she placed the call, he began mentally spending all the money he was going to make if he could pull this off. Big house on Newport, new boat…Ferrari.
Ever since Murphy told him about Ryan’s break-through, he knew that it would be worth billions to whoever could bring it to the open market. He also knew the oil companies would pay tens of billions to keep it off the market. He decided that fate had presented him with one of those rare, tailor-made, opportunities to play both sides of the equation.
Simple! I’ll sell the prototype off to a foreign buyer and keep the design plans to secure the U.S. patent rights. By the time he reverse-engineers it, I’ll be so rich it won’t matter.
A smug, self-satisfied grin appeared on his face. It was a win-win situation and Temple was a man who didn't like to lose… at anything.
The sudden buzzing of his desk phone interrupted his thoughts and told him it was time to make his next move.
An ornate wall clock quietly struck the hour, the Westminster chimes’ vibrant notes floating softly across the room as he picked up the phone. He touched the button to connect the call, heart now drumming a steady beat in his chest.
“Hello, Abdule. How are you?” He said, greeting Abdule Yashidda, chairman and owner of Yashidda Oil, one of the largest exporters in the Persian Gulf.
“Good morning Phillip, what can I do for you?” the Arab asked, obviously forgetting about the time difference. A rotund man in his early fifties, Yashidda stood just over five feet, seven inches tall and possessed both enormous wealth and a strict devotion to his Muslim faith.
“It's more about what I can do for you,” Temple teased, enjoying the game. “I have a product that you might be interested in.”
“Really? What is it?” the Ara
b asked, the overseas connection popping and hissing with static.
“I will soon have in my possession a new generation of energy technology that’s quite revolutionary. I thought the control of such technology might be worth something to you?”
Temple gloated silently, knowing the man feared a discovery like this more than the armies of any nation. Yashidda’s hesitation as he absorbed the revelation colorfully illustrated the depth of that fear.
Half a world away, the sands of Ryhiad, Saudi Arabia swirled, driven by the incendiary desert wind howling outside the window of Yashidda’s palatial home.
The oil man was well aware a quantum leap like this would undoubtedly have catastrophic affects on not only his business, but also on the economic and political stability of the entire region.
“Tell me,” Yashidda asked in a tentative timbre, “what is the nature of this technology?”
“It’s called particle manipulation technology,” Temple explained, “In its simplest application, a single disk the size of a watch battery could potentially power an electric car for decades. Larger units have commensurate energy delivery potential.”
Yashidda’s pulse quickened. A shrewd man, he knew if Temple called him, then he had the goods.
So, the Americans have developed a new energy technology. He sucked in a quick breath, his ruthless mind ticking through several possible response scenarios. An inconvenient, yet not completely unexpected, development. It was inevitable.
The revelation did more than trouble him. Creation of this kind of technology by western nations was the biggest fear of all the oil producing nations in the Middle East. Fundamentalist or progressive, they all relied on crude exports to the U.S. to drive their economies. If the cars in America suddenly went to this new power technology, the economic shock waves would cripple the region. He knew he had to keep this new battery out of production at all costs. Fortunately, he also knew the Americans were so greedy that they would sell anything to anyone for the right price.
He baited the trap. “What did you have in mind Phillip?”
Chain Reaction Power Failure Book I Page 5