7 Steps to Midnight

by Richard Matheson

  “You knew it wasn’t all your game then,” Chris said.

  “The word was out before your bus reached California,” Wilson said.

  Chris leaned forward in his chair. “And you let me go anyway?”

  “We were into it too deeply by then,” Wilson told him. “Moreover, the need was still there—to get your mind operational again.”

  “Even though my life might not be,” Chris responded.

  “We took the risk that we’d be able to protect you,” Wilson said coolly. “And we did have our British and French allies to help. Since they’d share the benefit of the turbulence solution, they were more than willing to—”

  “In essence then, my friend Gene died so you could play a trick on me,” Chris interrupted.

  “That isn’t the way I’d put it,” Wilson said.

  “He wasn’t the only one to die, Mr. Barton,” Veering added.

  Chris answered through clenching teeth. “I know that,” he said. “I saw them die.”

  “If we’d known how bad it was going to get, we would, of course, have terminated the project,” Veering said.

  Chris looked at the little man. The project, he thought. Veering might have been discussing an unsuccessful chess game.

  “So the game went on,” Chris said. “The tickets and money left on my car seat. The overnight bag in the airport locker. The man on the airplane. What happened to him anyway; was the bathroom rigged?”

  “Of course,” Wilson answered.

  Chris nodded, smiling coldly. “So I got to London and you had me taken to a hotel.”

  “As a matter of fact, the taxi that was supposed to pick you up was bypassed by a regular cab. It was fortunate you weren’t picked up by one of the groups waiting for you.”

  “Yes, fortunate,” Chris said. “So what then? The cassette in my room, my Blue Swan adventure? Was that man really drugged?”

  “He was,” Wilson said. “Probably by Modi or one of his associates.”

  “Who was Modi anyway?” Chris asked. He didn’t want to keep talking with these two bastards but curiosity kept him at it.

  “We don’t have all the details,” Wilson said, “but, apparently, there were two groups after you. Modi worked for one, Cabal headed the other. The first group was interested primarily in what you knew. The second group was only interested in killing you—until Cabal realized, toward the end, the value of what you knew. His group was the one that chased you in London, and outside of it; you were, of course, in our limousine.”

  “The dream I had in that hotel suite,” Chris said.

  “Not a dream,” Veering told him. “Induced by drugs and suggestion. To embellish your experience.”

  “Thanks, that was good of you,” Chris replied. “I suppose you were the one who slapped me on the Hovercraft as well.”

  “I was.” Veering nodded.

  Chris smiled bitterly. “You had it all figured out, didn’t you? A little evening in the theater, a high-speed chase with a gorgeous female agent…”

  “The chase was genuine, as I’ve said,” Wilson replied. “She saved your life.”

  “And added romance to my little adventure, of course,” Chris said.

  “Unfortunately—” Veering began.

  “Unfortunately?” Chris broke in. “Hell, it was perfect. Even the two groups added to the game. Of course, they might have ended the game by killing me but what the hell.”

  “Chris—” Wilson started.

  “So on it went.” Chris cut him off. “Romantic Paris. Reunion with the mysterious Alexsandra. Sorry I almost fouled things up by not following the plot you’d arranged and going to Montmartre by mistake. Losing my passport on the train, refusing to give up the microfilm in Lucerne. What was on it anyway, a shot of Sleeping Beauty’s castle?”

  “No, as a matter of fact, it was quite valuable,” Veering told him. “The agent who was supposed to carry it to Lucerne was the man who got killed in that restaurant at Montmartre. There was no immediate replacement for him, so it was decided, on the spur of the moment, to use you instead, incorporate the microfilm into your adventure.”

  “And the ring was already hollow, right?” Chris said.

  “No, we had to work on that while you were unconscious in the car,” Wilson said.

  “And where was she unconscious?” Chris asked.

  “In a Paris hotel room,” Wilson answered. “We thought she’d completed her assignment. Until you demanded that she be brought to Lucerne.”

  “Sorry I wasn’t playing the game right,” Chris said. “I’m really not used to being a spy though. My apologies.” He didn’t really care that Wilson’s face grew hard as he spoke. “I really screwed it up in Lucerne, didn’t I?”

  “You could have gotten yourself killed as well,” Wilson told him. “The man who picked up the ring made the mistake of assuming that you were too naive to give it to him without the microfilm inside. Then when the other agent broke into the room you were in and you kicked him in the balls… Well, let’s just say that it was fortunate his partner came into the room when he did. Otherwise, the ‘project’ might have ended right there. And by someone working for us.” He made an amused sound. “And you thought Meehan’s temper was bad. Sorry, Applegate’s temper.”

  Chris slumped back in the chair. “And where is ‘Alexsandra’ now?” he asked with a scornful smile.

  “You mustn’t be too hard on her,” Veering said. “If it wasn’t for her, you might still be in Europe.”

  Chris tightened. “What do you mean?”

  “She tried to talk us out of continuing with the project from the moment she knew it was more involved than we’d planned—although she didn’t know, of course, exactly what our plan was—when she had to drive you to safety that first night in London and we had to make abrupt rearrangements to put you in another hotel.

  “If there’d been time, we probably would have removed her from the operation as soon as she expressed doubt about it. But by then, too many details of the operation involved her.

  “By the time you’d reached Venice, though, it was clear that we had to accelerate the project and get you out of Europe, in the hope that your brain had been stimulated enough by all the things that had happened to you by then to have made it all worthwhile.”

  Worthwhile, Chris thought, remembering the look on Alexsandra’s (Jane’s) face when, looking at his sheet of figures in the Venice hotel room, she’d said, “So, this is what it’s all about?”

  “Unfortunately, it became apparent to us that Jane Malcolm was unable to withhold information any longer,” Veering said. “She was on the verge of telling you everything when our man—the gondolier—put a tranquilizer dart into her.”

  “Where is she now?” Chris asked.

  “In London,” Veering said. “Perfectly well. Questions?”

  Chris just looked at him, feeling almost apathetic now.

  “What if I’d just given myself up from the start?” he asked.

  “Our psychological profile on you indicated that you wouldn’t,” Veering said. “That was discussed most carefully before the operation was approved.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Chris nodded. “And ‘seven steps to midnight’?”

  “Designed to instill a sense of urgency in what was happening,” Veering answered. He smiled again; he was amused, the son of a bitch! “Unfortunately, we ran out of time after Venice. Rome was a nightmare for all of us—leaving you in the catacombs to see that projected figure, that tomb with Alexsandra’s ‘remains’ inside. Cabal’s group complicated everything. We had to end it then and there. Otherwise, we would have utilized the psychological pressures of steps three, two and one as well.”

  Chris nodded again. “And how many people died in order for this little game to take place?”

  “Listen, Chris.”

  Chris turned to look at Wilson. He’d never seen such an expression on Wilson’s face before; it was one of total dispassion. “If you’re looking for remorse or an apology
, forget it,” Wilson told him. “We didn’t create this venture as a lark. It was—it is—deadly serious.

  “If what happened to you stimulated your brain enough to enable you to complete your project, it was worth any price because it will help make the United States invulnerable to surprise enemy attack.

  “The solution of the turbulence problem will provide the ultimate force multiplier to the Star Wars system—or, for that matter, to any military system.

  “By the year 2032, there’ll be three nuclear-powered space battle stations in geo-synchronous orbit around the earth. These orbital fortresses are essential to the defense of our country. And the turbulence formula is the keystone to that plan.

  “If you think the nation’s problems are over because the cold war with Russia is over, you’re naively mistaken. The race for space defense will continue. So don’t, for an instant, think that what we did with you was wasted time or money—or lives.

  “Your country needs that formula and needs it now,” Wilson finished coldly. “That we went to all the trouble we did should make that perfectly obvious.

  “The ‘game,’ as you call it, was completely justified, no matter what the consequences were. You understand?”

  Chris answered quietly.

  “I understand,” he said.

  5

  The jet had landed in Tucson just past six P.M. A car had been waiting there to pick up Chris, another for Wilson and Veering. Although Chris had napped on the flight, Wilson had told him he’d be driven home so he could get a full night’s sleep before returning to work. Obviously, Wilson knew, somehow, that he’d been working on the program during his “adventure” in Europe.

  He’d been driven home by an Army sergeant and let off at his house. For a few moments he’d almost expected to find the couple still there. But of course they were gone and the alterations to his house had been eliminated.

  He’d taken a long, hot shower, trying to keep the bandage on his arm dry. Then he’d put on a clean pair of pajamas and gotten into bed. He automatically reached for a book to read before sleeping, but at the last second, he winced and went rigid. No, thank you, he thought. He felt as though he’d never touch one of the damn things again.

  It took him more than two hours to fall asleep, his brain a maelstrom of painful recollections, the worst having to do with Alexsandra. Pardon me, he’d thought, Jane Malcolm. Not quite so evocative a name. But then, of course, “Alexsandra” had been the idea from the start, probably Veering’s.

  The bastards.

  Sometime after three A.M., he woke up to go to the bathroom. While he was standing by the toilet in the front bathroom, he glanced outside.

  The car was still there. Inside it, he could see the glowing tip of a cigarette.

  Clearly, they were not about to let him out of their sight.

  ***

  Four days had gone by.

  Now he was finishing up his work on the turbulence problem.

  He typed in the last few lines of the formula, then turned off the computer. The screen went dark and, standing, he stretched. Finis, he thought.

  He sighed and cleared his throat, then took the disc from the computer and added it to the others in the box. Picking up the box, he walked to the door of the office and opened it.

  Sergeant Akins was waiting there as always, a .45 belted to his waist. He looked at Chris inquiringly.

  “I’m bringing this to Mr. Wilson,” Chris told him.

  “Yes, sir.” The sergeant nodded once.

  He walked beside Chris along the corridor until they reached Wilson’s office, then waited outside for Chris to return.

  “Chris!” Wilson looked at him with eager anticipation as he came in. “You have it?”

  Chris held out the box as he crossed the office. He laid it on Wilson’s desk.

  “Finished?” Wilson asked.

  Chris nodded.

  “That’s amazing,” Wilson said. “You had all of it in your head?”

  “Yes.” Chris nodded again.

  “The boys at the Pentagon are going to be very happy to hear about this,” Wilson told him.

  “The boys,” Chris murmured.

  Wilson chuckled. “We’re all boys,” he said. “The playing field is a lot bigger now, that’s all.”

  Chris smiled. “I understand.”

  Wilson tapped the box. “I wonder if you appreciate what you’ve done here,” he said.

  “I think I do,” Chris answered.

  Wilson came around the desk and shook his hand firm.

  “The nation is in your debt,” he said.

  Chris smiled again. “Thank you.” He exhaled wearily. “I’d like to go home now, if you don’t mind.”

  “Take the rest of the week off,” Wilson said expansively. “You’re entitled.”

  ***

  Sergeant Akins drove him home and Chris went inside his house. He knew that Akins would remain there for the next six hours or so, then be replaced. They weren’t going to leave him alone for a moment now.

  Not until the program checked out anyway.

  Chris left the drapes and blinds open as he made himself some supper. He watched television while he ate, flipping channels until he found a program devoid of the slightest element of suspense or mystery. He finally settled for a cable shopper’s program. He stared at it almost blindly for several hours before turning it off.

  At ten P.M., he went into the bedroom and took off his clothes. He showered and put on his pajamas, then got into bed. Was Akins watching every move? Not likely. His schedule was, as before, boringly similar night after night.

  He picked up a novel and, opening it, stared at it for an hour or so, turning the pages in a regular pattern.

  It was just past 11:15 when he turned out the lights.

  He lay there for about ten minutes, then got up.

  Remaining in the shadows, he took off his pajamas and got dressed, putting boots on his feet. He slipped on a jacket and moved across the bedroom, staying in the shadows.

  He went into the family room and, unlocking the glass door, slid it open enough to edge through to the patio.

  Keeping the house between him and the street—he looked back periodically to make sure he was moving in a straight line—he headed out across the desert. He was very glad now that he’d bought a house on the edge of the development.

  It made his escape a lot easier.

  He walked quickly across the desert, boots crunching on the sand. He could have done this two days ago, but he had had to wait for a new moon so the desert would be dark. He’d stalled for several days before completing the program on his computer.

  He removed the compass from his pocket and looked at its luminescent face.

  Dead on, he saw.

  ***

  The car was parked on the side of the dirt road, exactly where he expected it to be. Pays to phone a professional (from an untapped booth), he thought, smiling to himself.

  He opened the door on the passenger side and got in.

  They held each other in silence for more than a minute before she spoke.

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” she murmured. “I thought I’d dreamed your telephone call.”

  “There’s only one thing you have to be afraid of,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “That it’s going to take me a hell of a long time to start calling you Jane.”

  She drew back and smiled at him. Stroked his cheek. “It seems so far away now,” she said. “Thank God.”

  She kissed him and they clung to one another for a long time.

  Then, finally, she said, “We should leave.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  She kissed him again, then started the motor and started driving toward the highway with the lights out.

  “You don’t think they’ll know you’ve gone?” she asked.

  “Not until morning. The good sergeant saw me getting into my pajamas, climbing into bed and reading for an hour befo
re turning out the light.”

  “A spy novel?” she asked, amused.

  “Robert Ludlum.”

  She laughed, delighted. “Perfect,” she said. She looked at him. “You tricked them most professionally,” she said with praise.

  “I was primed for it after what I went through,” he answered.

  She looked at him in concern. “You do know that I tried to get you out of it.”

  “I know.” He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Everything’s fine.”

  She sighed in relief, then said, “You also know this flight is going to cost us a lot of money. But it’s the only way. We can’t take the chance of taking a commercial flight.”

  “What about the pilot of the private plane?” he asked, repressing a smile. “Do we kill him afterward?”

  “He’s a chum,” she said. “We’ve worked together many times in the past. Our secret will be safe with him.”

  He smiled, feeling happy for the first time since he’d been with her in France.

  “Am I going to like your island?” he asked.

  “You’re going to love it,” she answered.

  She turned onto the highway now and, turning on the headlights, pushed down hard on the gas pedal. The car surged forward.

  “Chris?” she said.

  “What?”

  “Did you… finish your program?”

  “I had to,” he said. “They’d never relax their surveillance of me until I did.”

  “I see.” Her tone was soft, deflated.

  Chris chuckled.

  “What is it?” she asked, looking at him in surprise.

  “We’ll have a perfect tan before they locate the piece of the equation that fouls up everything,” he said.

  His smile faded.

  “They’ll have to figure out how to destroy the world without my help,” he added.

  She was smiling happily now; there was a glistening in her eyes. “I’m so glad,” she said.