by A. W. Mykel
After a few more silent moments, he put on his coat. He looked back as he was walking out. His eyes moistened. He decided to close the door, so that on Monday morning Pat would think he was in there, and nobody would be allowed to disturb him. It might not be discovered all morning that he wasn’t in. That would give him even more valuable time, although he would probably already be in Russia by then.
He walked out into the hallway. It seemed a hundred miles long. His nerves were jumping, and his legs felt weak. The sweat that poured from his body had already made his undershirt stick to his back. He could feel a trickle of sweat run down the inside of his thigh, almost to the knee, before his pants absorbed it.
Anxiety was taking control of his body. His legs didn’t want to move, he felt like puking. He knew now how Ross must have felt that night at Kinzie’s. He walked down the hallway slowly, telling himself that everything was fine.
His eyes focused on the water cooler. His throat felt suddenly like feathers. He stopped and took a long cooling drink and watched the water swirling down the drain.
Down the drain!
That’s where he could end up if something went wrong. What if they steal my information and leave me behind, he worried. He’d better do something about that. Yeah, he could stop off on the way home. He knew what to do. It would only take a few minutes.
He had begun to walk away from the cooler, when he felt the schematics move. They weren’t as tight now. The socks felt loose around the ankle. Jesus Christ, they were falling!
He started to bend forward when he heard voices behind him. It was Gina and Dr. Clark. Bridges looked up at the hallway clock. Five thirty. What were they doing here so late?
He began walking to keep ahead of them but the right sock was getting looser with each step. It looked almost as though he were limping, as he shuffled the foot smoothly to keep the sock from falling any further.
“Leg still bothering you, Dr. Bridges?” Gina asked.
He looked up nervously, as his colleagues flanked him. Sweat was rolling down his face.
“What’s wrong with your leg?” Dr. Clark asked him.
“Oh, just a little stiffness in the knee. It comes and goes,” he lied.
“You ought to get that looked at, Ed,” Clark said.
“Yes…yes, I think I will. Tomorrow,” he said with a nervous little laugh.
They slowed their pace to walk with him. They came to the security checkpoint.
Each level had its own security station, with another central security checkpoint at ground level. This was level three, or the “red deck” as it was known, because of the red floors and ceilings throughout the entire level. Each level had a different color. The “red deck” was the main area of activity in the Alpha complex.
Getting out of Alpha was a simple matter compared to getting in. On entering, one had to pass through the outer doors at ground level. These were activated by inserting an identification plate bearing a magnetic code into the slot next to the door. Once through these, a second, identical set of doors was encountered against the far side of a small foyer. These doors were operated in the same way as the first set, except that they would open only if the first set had already closed. This prevented anyone on the outside from seeing in past the foyer and beyond the second set of doors. In the event of emergency, all doors could open at the same time.
After going through the second set of doors, one passed between two armed military guards positioned at either side of the doors. This was the ground level security checkpoint.
It was a large room with three sets of sliding doors, the one from the foyer being the first. The second set was along the right wall. These were colored black. Only security personnel passed through these doors and knew what was behind them. An intruder would find out fast enough for himself. Word had it that it was very, very unpleasant. The third set was a duplicate of the first, white in color and leading to the elevator that descended to the six various levels of Alpha. These doors were situated on the wall to the left of the entrance. Against the center wall was a long black table, its top like polished glass. This was a very special desk.
At one end of the desk was a ledger, which every person entering or leaving the complex signed. There was a pen connected to a holder by a fine wire, much like any pen you might find in a bank or at the registration desk of a hotel. But this pen was also special. It transmitted the impulse of the signature from the pressure-sensitive tip along the wire directly to SENTINEL. The signature was then compared to the record file. Over two hundred separate characteristics were checked. A forgery was impossible.
After signing the ledger, the next step involved looking through a periscopelike device into a soft blue light. Retinal patterns were checked. No two are alike.
Then there was an area on the shiny surface that measured about twelve inches square. The right hand was placed here, palm down, and the entire print was checked. Once past this, one passed between two more armed guards into the elevators. The guards were big, menacing-looking fellows who never spoke. They just watched everyone all the time—ever silent, always watching.
After arriving at the desired level, one went through the entire process all over again, at the secondary security stations located on each floor. All security checkpoints were identical, except for floor, ceiling, and door coloring.
Leaving Alpha was a much simpler matter. All that was required was to sign out and surrender any bags or cases for search. The signing of the ledger was just to record your leaving the complex.
Bridges stood before the security station. He was paralyzed. It was as though his fear were trying to stop him from going further. Fear is funny that way. You are held back by the dread of what lies ahead and, at the same time, driven forward by the thing in us all that lets us derive a strange pleasure and exhilaration from it. Both repelled and drawn closer—one urge is dictated by the instinct for self-preservation, the other by self-destruction. A strange admixture of sensations.
Bridges tried desperately to force it from his mind.
“You don’t look too well, Ed,” Dr. Clark said to him.
“I don’t feel well, either,” he replied. “I’m going to bed when I get home,” he said.
The group passed through the security checkpoint and entered the elevator. The right sock was starting to go. The schematics were beginning to move away from the leg, applying a still greater downward force against the sock.
Several minutes later, they had signed out of the main security checkpoint at ground level and stood waiting for the doors to open. Bridges could feel the eyes of the military guards boring into him. His face was flushed, and he was covered with perspiration. If anyone looked like he should be stopped and searched, he was sure it was him.
They were watching him. He was looking back. He wanted to throw up. He felt like raising his hands and giving himself up.
The doors finally opened. A few minutes later, the outer set of doors opened as well, and they stepped into the outside world of the Aztek Corporation. It was a long walk out to the parking lot, and he was sure the sock wouldn’t hold. His mind raced. What could he do before they came tumbling out? He had to do something.
Wait! There was a bathroom just around the turn in the hallway. It wasn’t far. But it wasn’t close, either. Every step made the sock slip lower. Only the bottoms of the sheets were now held in place. They were beginning to fall away from his legs and were lying against the pant legs. They were bulging. One more inch and it was good-bye Bridges. He turned the corner.
It was just ahead. Please, nobody look down at my pant legs or have to take a leak. He walked the last steps. He prayed.
It was gone! The sock was down and the sheets rested on the bridge of his foot. Only three shuffling steps…two…one. He moved to the bathroom. No one noticed as he fell back and pushed the door open. The others kept on walking.
Please be empty, he prayed. He pushed his way in just as the sheets fell out. His heart nearly stopped as he loo
ked up. The room was empty. No one had seen. His head was nearly exploding with the pounding of his heart.
“Whew!” he let out in winded relief. He bent down after a moment of recuperation. He gathered the sheets and stuffed them back into the sock. He pulled it up, and it again felt snug. Then he adjusted the left leg. That would easily get him the rest of the way.
He walked back out into the hallway and out of the building, the fear still burning in his eyes. He made it to his car and flopped in. It was over. He had beaten them. Not quite the cakewalk that he had imagined, but it was sweet victory just the same.
He started the car and removed the sheets. He put them on the seat beside him. Then he drove off to his first stop—the library, for a little insurance.
SEVENTEEN
The “big lie” began when we realized beyond all doubt that the war was lost. We kept the people believing in ultimate victory to keep them fighting to the end.
The Führer said, “If the war should be lost, the nation too will be lost. That would be the nation’s unalterable fate. Then there is no need to consider the basic requirements that people need in order to continue to live a primitive life. On the contrary, it is better ourselves to destroy such things, for the nation will have proved itself the weaker and the future will belong to the stronger Eastern nation. Those who remain alive after the battles are over are in any case only inferior persons, since the best have fallen.”
The Volkssturm—the last-ditch force of all remaining manpower—was mobilized. The children and old men of Germany prepared for the battle of the Fatherland.
Entry No. 29 from the partially
recovered Wolf Journal
From his position the fat man could watch the entire gate area and the ramp leading to the terminal pod. His stubby hand pushed a soiled hanky across his sweat-covered face. He had always had a bad perspiration problem; the waiting made it worse. He hated waiting.
This was the first time the fat man had ever been in the Newark International Airport. It was impressive. Concrete, steel, and glass were shaped into three expansive, futuristic structures, the lines and contrasting design of which left one with the feeling of being in gentle, lazy motion.
Each terminal had three podlike extensions connected to the main terminal body by long, glass-enclosed ramps. In each pod were ten to twelve boarding gates.
It was here that he knew Carson Ross would come. He was ticketed on TWA Flight 193 to Chicago, departing at 7:45 a.m. It was now 7:15, and Ross still hadn’t checked in.
The fat man looked at his watch and wiped the sweat from his face.
Five minutes later the dark, round eyes spotted Ross coming down the rampway. Ross didn’t notice the short, fat man fall in behind him as he stepped up to the check-in counter to get his seat assignment.
“Flight one-ninety-three to Chicago,” he said to the very pretty black woman behind the counter.
“Do you have any bags to be checked?” she asked with a smile.
“No, just carry-on,” he replied, holding on tightly to the flight bag in his hand. He had good reasons for not letting that bag out of his hands—twenty-five thousand reasons, every one of them an American dollar. He had, indeed, made a sweet deal for himself. Twenty-five grand a month for the next ten months. Each month a different city would be set for the pickup. This month’s had been Newark, New Jersey. He had made his pickup and spent the night in Newark. This money was his, regardless of how Bridges made out in his attempt to go over.
The fat man placed his heavy black case on the floor behind Ross and waited his turn.
“First class,” the woman said to Ross. “Will you be smoking on board?” she asked.
“Yes. I’d like the last aisle seat on the left,” he specified.
“Let’s see if it’s available,” she said, punching the request into the computer. “There it is,” she said. She stapled the boarding pass to the ticket and handed it to him.
“That’s seat four-B, boarding at gate thirty-five in about five minutes,” she said.
The fat man had listened to the whole exchange. A trace of a smile broke across his face. Ross was a creature of predictable habit. The dossier had said that he would select that seat—always first class, and always the last aisle seat on the left.
Ross turned to walk away and stumbled over the fat man’s heavy case, nearly falling to the floor. He glared up at the little fat man as he straightened himself up.
“I am very sorry,” the man said in a heavy, guttural accent. It sounded German to Ross.
Ross stared into the round face that had just offered its apologies. The face reminded him of a seal’s, with big, bulging dark eyes and oily skin. A heavy five o’clock shadow covered the cheeks and chin. Oily strands of long black hair were combed across the top of a balding head.
Ugly bastard, Ross thought. He gave an annoyed frown and walked away without comment.
The dark eyes followed Ross as he walked around the courtesy counter and disappeared. The fat man stepped up to the counter. He checked in and asked for the fifth-row aisle seat on the right side of the plane.
The fat man took a seat in the gate area that allowed him a good view of Ross. He unfolded a newspaper he had carried in the pocket of his big brown trench coat and began reading it.
Several minutes later the boarding announcement was made. Passengers lined up and began filing down the boarding ramp. The fat man remained seated. He would try to be the last man on board, to be certain that Ross stayed on the plane where he wanted him.
He went back to reading his paper, shooting quick glances over the top of the pages at Ross. When the final boarding call was made, Ross got up, showed his boarding pass to the attendant, then headed down the ramp toward the waiting 707. The fat man remained seated, turning through the pages of his newspaper.
The fat man waited an additional three or four minutes before folding his paper and going down the ramp. He was the last man to board. The aircraft door was closed behind him, as he walked down the aisle between the four rows of first-class seats. A quick check told him that Ross was where he was supposed to be. He didn’t look into Ross’s face as he walked past him.
As the fat man walked by, Ross turned away disgustedly. There was a gamey smell to the sweaty little man. Ross didn’t like people that were unattractive or smelled like they could use a shower. Fat people. Ross despised them.
The fat man took his seat in the first row of tourist, one row behind Ross on the opposite side of the aircraft. His eyes fixed on the space under Ross’s seat. It was accessible. Many planes have no access to the space beneath the last row of first-class seats. Some 707s did. The seat he occupied had no seat in front to stow carry-on baggage beneath, so he left his seat and placed the black salesman’s case under Ross’s seat. He retook his seat and prepared for takeoff.
Ten minutes later they were off and Chicago bound. The fat man gave Ross a final check and spotted the flight bag, then settled back to enjoy his flight.
The flight was routine. Breakfast was served in both compartments, and a curtain was drawn to separate the two classes of accommodation. The fat man couldn’t see Ross for most of the flight, but it didn’t bother him. Ross couldn’t go anywhere now.
Ross was draining the last bits of his third cup of coffee as he contemplated his future. He had a steady and substantial income for the next year. He had finally made it to the big time. Fees like his weren’t paid out that often. He had given them the biggy. He could sell them anything now, for ten times the usual payment, just because it was coming from him.
He turned his eyes to more immediate prospects as the stewardess approached with the coffee. He had had his eye on her since before the takeoff. Good ass. He bet she was a moaner.
“We don’t get very many four-cuppers,” she said, as she filled his cup again.
“I’m not your ordinary guy,” he said, as his eyes began undressing her. “Where are you based, honey?” he asked.
“San Francisco,”
she replied.
“Oh, really. I might be visiting out there. Maybe you can show me the sights. You going to be in Chicago a while?” he asked.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “One-ninety-three continues on to Denver from O’Hare. Some of the crew will be changing in Chicago, but a few of us will be going on to Denver. Then I’m off for home,” she told him.
“That’s too bad, doll. I would have liked showing you the town. Anybody ever tell you you’ve got a great ass?”
She stared blankly at him, not knowing what to say, not quite believing that he had said it. She was embarrassed.
“I mean it. You’ve got some great ass there. I’d like to show you around Chicago sometime,” he said.
“I’ll bet you would,” she said. Red-faced, she turned and began to retreat up the aisle. First class was small and didn’t afford many places to hide.
He got up and went forward, brushing his hand against her behind as he passed by.
“Hey! Stop that!” she said, spinning toward him.
“Excuse me, doll. Just trying to get by. I gotta go tinkle. Wanna come along and hold it for me?”
Why that son-of-a-bitch, she fumed. I’ll fix his smart ass.
Ross touched her again as he returned to his seat. Her face flushed in anger, but she ignored the offense and returned to the first-class galley.
Ross finished his coffee and held up his cup. It was a game now. Nobody could like airline coffee that much.
She went back to him with a smile on her face.
As Ross placed his cup on her tray, she felt a hand glide up the back of her leg. She jumped a little at first, but finished pouring his coffee and bent forward, holding out the tray. As he took the cup, Ross’s hand went higher up the back of her skirt, almost all the way to heaven. She tipped the coffee pot until a narrow stream of piping hot coffee splashed into his lap.
He jumped, his hand flashing from under her skirt to his lap.
She bent down close to him and, with a smile, said, “Aw, did you burn your little pee pee?” She leaned closer and whispered, “Touch me again, Romeo, and you’ll wear this whole pot in your crotch. Get the message?”