TWO SUDDEN!: A Pair of Cole Sudden C.I.A. Thrillers

by Lawrence de Maria

  “Anything cutting-edge, like what they are doing at the Hadron Collider?”

  “No, nothing like that. We can’t achieve the particle speeds that circular machines can. Our research is more basic. But don’t get me wrong. It’s important, nevertheless, since we can run many more experiments and provide many calculations quicker and less-expensively than at the big colliders, where so many different scientists vie for machine time.”

  That was very interesting, Sudden realized. It provided an explanation for Baker’s presence in Georgia.

  “Do your people interact with those at Hadron?”

  “All the time.”

  “What are your security protocols?”

  “There really aren’t any. Information is quickly passed around among the scientific community, even the breakthroughs. Especially the breakthroughs. Hell, most of the work, whether it’s from linear or circular colliders, is posted on open-source internet bulletin boards, where everyone has access.”

  So, Sudden realized, Baker could easily send his findings to his contact at Hadron, and no one would be the wiser. If he hadn’t sent that coded burst, presumably with something sensitive, on his cell phone, he’d still be at it. What that contact did with those equations was the $24-million-dollar question.

  ***

  Samantha, indeed, turned out to be an excellent cook.

  “This might be the best coq au vin I’ve ever had,” Sudden said after his second portion. He poured them both a glass of Belle Glos Pinot Noir, a California Central Coast favorite of his he was surprised to find in a local wine shop.

  “I cannot tell a lie,” she said. “I use a braising sauce from Williams-Sonoma and a crock pot.”

  “It’s still terrific. What’s for dessert?”

  “Me.”

  ***

  “So, what do we have?”

  “Well, I think I have a friction burn.”

  “No, you idiot,” she said, gently massaging him. “That’s not what I meant.”

  They were lying in her bed.

  “Sam, I’m a lot older than you. Last woman I was …. involved with, died. And …. it was my fault. I’m damaged goods. I’m not saying that to be dramatic. It’s not a line. I’d like to think we had more than a roll in the hay. I don’t know what else to say.”

  She smiled and her ministrations gathered speed.

  “I don’t think that’s going to work,” he said.

  “Well, maybe this will,” she replied, and her head drifted down to his groin.

  “That might work,” he said after a moment.

  An hour later, she lay in the crook of his arm.

  “Maybe we’ll see each other again, Cole, and maybe we won’t. But if we do, I hope it’s sooner than later. Because you’re right. You’re not getting any younger.”

  CHAPTER 17 - NEW YORK

  Sudden caught an early flight out of Atlanta the next morning and took a cab from JFK to his club, the Union League, on 37th Street, just off Park Avenue.

  Sudden belonged to many clubs, mostly for golf. He liked to be coddled, and the reciprocity privileges afforded by most clubs assured him safe and familiar havens in many of the cities he visited worldwide. The Union League wasn’t a golf club, but it remained his favorite. His father, a prominent Wall Street lawyer, had been a member, and Sudden’s most cherished memories involved staying with his dad at the Union League during long weekends in Manhattan while his mother and older sister took their annual “girls only” trips to Europe. The museums, the ball games at Yankee Stadium, the plays, the lunches at Hurley’s at Rockefeller Center; all were embedded in his psyche. It had all ended in his senior year at Yale, when his family had died in a fiery small plane crash on their way up to visit him at Dartmouth. That tragedy left Sudden outwardly unchanged, but with a cold, hard psychological core that, he knew, allowed him to now do things that other men wouldn’t, or couldn’t. He was alone in the world but allowed himself the comfort of familiar surroundings whenever he could. He maintained an apartment just off Rittenhouse Square in Central City Philadelphia, but was rarely there.

  There was a slight drizzle as the cab pulled up to the club entrance. A large American flag on a second-floor balcony jutted out from a pole directly above the building’s distinctive blue awning. Founded in 1863 by Union supporters, who were in shorter and shorter supply in New York City as the increasingly unpopular Civil War dragged on, it had long maintained a reputation for good food and wine. Originally located in a mansion owned by the Jerome family, which produced the mother of Winston Churchill, it now occupied a 12-story Georgian brownstone built on land formerly owned by J.P. Morgan, an early club member. The Union League was a frequent stop for American Presidents, including a recent one, and Sudden had crossed paths with two of them, although the Secret Service kept most members, including him, at a distance. He wondered what they would think if they knew that Sudden, as one of the C.I.A.’s apex assassins, in effect, worked for their boss.

  Another reason Sudden favored the Union League met him as he entered the lobby.

  “Mr. Sudden, how wonderful to see you. Are you staying with us tonight?”

  As usual, Brandefine, the club’s venerable doorman, made a huge fuss whenever Sudden showed up.

  “No, Brandy. Just in for a quick lunch with my agent. How is the family?”

  They shook hands warmly. Brandefine never forgot a face or a name. If he were any younger, Sudden would have recruited him for the agency.

  “Grandkids are killing my back, but what are you going to do,” he said, opening the door for Sudden. ‘That’s their job. I just wish they weren’t so good at it.”

  Inside the lobby, Sudden was greeted, just as warmly, by the club’s concierge.

  “Welcome back, Mr. Sudden. Ms. Parker is already here, at your table. Nice and quiet, in the corner, just as you always like.”

  “Thank you, Maurice.”

  Sudden went into the dining room. He waved to a few people he knew on his way to his table. It was Saturday, when the room was typically not crowded. The Union League Club had strict rules about talking business, which were universally ignored. During the week its bars and dining areas were favorite meeting places for the city’s business and political elite.

  “I’m sorry you had to come out on a weekend, Cristina,” Sudden said, bending down to kiss her. “But it will be my only chance to talk to you in person before I go to Europe.”

  He took her in. Her hair was a little longer than when he’d last seen her, and a lighter shade of brown. Even her eyes looked different. They had a greenish tint where once they had been pale blue. Different contacts, or their real color?

  “It’s no problem,” she said. “I love coming here. Besides, agenting has become a 24/7 business. I’m just glad I can still do it. And I had to do some shopping anyway.”

  Sudden knew that the publishing industry had been devastated in recent years by the inroads of Amazon. Many agents were struggling.

  “You look great, Cristina,” he said.

  It was true. In addition to the cosmetic changes, she seemed to have a glow to her.

  Cristina Parker, who was wearing a three-buttoned tweed jacket over black pants, was a fine-looking woman in her late 20’s who hadn’t allowed the cutthroat nature of her profession impinge on her good nature. Not that she wasn’t a tough negotiator. The year before she had won Sudden a six-figure advance for his next three “Jake Harms” novels.

  “So do you, Cole. Sometimes I wish I was still available.”

  She wagged a rather impressive-looking engagement ring at him. That explained the glow. He’s almost forgotten.

  “By God, Cristina. Is that what sank the Titanic?”

  She giggled.

  “It was Clive’s grandmother’s. He had it reset. A bit much, but it is lovely, isn’t it?”

  “No more than you deserve, kiddo.”

  “By the way, thank you for the engagement gift, Cole. It was much too extravagant.”

 
Sudden couldn’t remember what the gift was, but he’d obviously done a good job.

  “Nonsense. You’re more than my agent. You’re my friend. Set the date yet?”

  “No. Sometime next spring. But whenever it is you will come, won’t you?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  Assuming there is a world, of course.

  A waiter came over and took their order. A salad Niçoise for Cristina and a club sandwich for Sudden. Both had iced tea. He suspected Cristina would be eating a lot of salads before her wedding. Not that she had much weight to spare, but it was apparently a tribal ritual for all engaged women.

  “So, Cole, what’s this about Switzerland?”

  Sudden briefly outlined his plot for his next thriller, which he had quickly cobbled together on the flight from Atlanta.

  “The Hadron Collider? I’ve heard of it, of course. And Jake Harms will thwart a conspiracy by terrorists who want to blow it up?”

  “That’s it, in a nutshell.”

  “Who is Jake working for now?”

  “The C.I.A.”

  Sudden’s hero, the dashing “Jake Harms”, was originally written as a cold-hearted soldier of fortune often used by Government agencies on delicate missions. At his publisher’s request, he’d toned down Harms’s rougher edges, eliminating some of the more brutal aspects of a personality that Sudden, subconsciously mimicking his own, had allowed to seep into his prose. Jake was now a somewhat nicer person than his creator.

  “Why not MI-6? The collider is a European project, right?”

  “Yes. It’s near Geneva and is so huge it is located both in Switzerland and France, mostly the latter. But I was thinking about my American audience.”

  “Think James Bond. The Brits are very sexy.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Your intended is British. Is he sexy?”

  Parker colored.

  “Stop teasing. I’m just trying to position your book.”

  “I know. I’ll think about it. Now, is the publisher giving you more heat about my picture?”

  It was a bone of contention between Sudden and Parker. For obvious reasons, Sudden, didn’t want his photo on the book jacket.

  “They bring it up all the time. I’m about to tell them you are disfigured, like the Elephant Man. They don’t understand all the secrecy. For God’s sake, Cole, you are a handsome devil. Sebastian Junger doesn’t have anything on you.”

  Nigel would love to hear that, Sudden thought.

  “Non-negotiable, kid.” He knew he’d have to give something. “For now. But you never know.”

  Maybe he could have the agency come up with a composite. He smiled at the thought. The wizards at the agency could have some fun. A little Dillinger, maybe some Johnny Depp. Hell, a touch of Junger, just to piss off Nigel.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing.”

  Their lunch came and the topic switched to Cristina’s wedding plans. Sudden didn’t have to pretend to enjoy the conversation. He was genuinely happy for his agent. Planning nuptials had nothing on D-Day he believed. After coffee, he walked her out to the street.

  “How long will you be at the Hadron facility?”

  “As long as it takes. Do you know anyone over there who could make my life easier?”

  She thought about it.

  “I have some friends at Hachette, which is owned by the Lagardère Group in France. I’ll make a couple of calls this afternoon.”

  That wouldn’t hurt his cover, Sudden knew.

  ***

  Sudden had one more stop to make in New York before leaving for Europe. His was a dangerous life, which he tried to make less so by careful preparation and research. The research came naturally to him, and his years as a writer had honed his skills in that regard even further. On the rare occasions that he’d acted hastily, such on his last major assignment before the aborted Battaglia sanction, when his desire for revenge clouded his judgment, had almost ended in disaster. He wanted to leave nothing to chance when he got to the CERN facility, where he would be dealing with human scientists and theoretical physicists who might sound as alien to him as the real one he was after.

  Which was why after his lunch with Cristina he took a cab to Morningside Heights and was soon ushered into the spartan office of Dr. Konrath Eisler in Pupin Hall, which housed the Physics Department of Columbia University.

  “Thank you, Mary,” Eisler said to his assistant, who shut the door behind Sudden. The physicist wheeled his way from behind his desk and offered his hand. There were braces on both his legs. “Why don’t we sit at that table over there by the window, Mr. Swift. I put together some material for you that may help you with your research.”

  Sudden’s appointment had been arranged by a friend of Nigel Buss’s at the Smithsonian in Washington.

  “I’m afraid that I don’t read spy thrillers,” Eisler continued as they moved to the table, “but I admit that I am intrigued by your interest in theoretical physics. What is the plot of your book?”

  Sudden repeated the story he’d given to his agent.

  “A terrorist attack at CERN? Fascinating. I’ve been there, of course. Several times. Even lectured. I must say I was not overwhelmed by the security arrangements at the facility. They don’t seem to take it as seriously as we in America do.”

  “A 9/11 will have that effect,” Sudden said.

  “Yes, I would agree.”

  Eisler positioned his wheelchair next to a chair and using the table for leverage hoisted himself into it. Although probably in his late 60’s, with a shock of white, unruly hair and wire-rimmed glasses, Eisler was a formidable man, thick through the chest. The muscles in his arms bulged through his shirt when he moved to the chair. Sudden could tell by the man’s demeanor and forcefulness that he wouldn’t want help in an action he probably did a dozen times a day, while alone. So, he didn’t offer any and quickly took another chair at the table. He looked out the window of the fourth-floor office down at students hurrying between buildings.

  “This is a beautiful campus, Dr. Eisler. You’d never know you are in New York City.”

  ‘Yes. I love it here. And we do good work in this department.”

  “Just what goes on here?”

  “Research in astrophysics, high energy particle and nuclear physics, condensed matter physics, and atomic, molecular, and optical physics.”

  “All in this building?”

  “No, no. Some of the work is done here, in the Pupin labs, but also at Schapiro Hall, at the Nevis Laboratories, and at several laboratories and sites elsewhere in the city. So, Mr. Swift, how can I help? What do you want to know? Doctor Kepic was not specific when he called.”

  Kepic was the name of Nigel’s friend at the Smithsonian.

  Sudden smiled.

  “Just as you don’t read thrillers, Dr. Eisler, I don’t read many scientific papers. I don’t want to go to Hadron looking and sounding like a complete idiot. What can I expect to see?”

  “Well, they are doing some marvelous work at CERN, mainly in particle physics.”

  “Smashing atoms together to see what happens?”

  Eisler smiled.

  “They wouldn’t put it quite that way, but, yes, that’s basically what they do. They’ve managed to boost the particle streams almost to the speed of light.” He laughed. “A few of the scientists even claimed that they exceeded the speed of light, roughly 186,000 miles per second.”

  “I don’t know much physics, Dr. Eisler, but isn’t that an impossibility?’

  “Einstein said so, but now we’re not so sure. I believe the most recent data was flawed, and the scientists at CERN were mistaken, but I, for one, see it as a possibility. Have you heard of quantum physics?”

  “Yes,” Sudden said. “But I hope there won’t be a quiz. But just in case, I think I’ll record our conversation, if you don’t mind.”

  He placed his iPhone on the table and turned on its recording function.

  “Not at all,”
Eisler laughed, “and don’t worry. I won’t bore you or get too technical. Even some of us don’t get understand all of it. But, in general, quantum mechanics holds that every subatomic action or movement in our world is instantly mirrored, for want of a better word, somewhere else in the universe, and, perhaps, in a parallel universe. Since the reaction may be light years away, the speed of light has no relevance. ‘Instant’ is, by its very definition, faster than the speed of light. Just like thought is.”

  “Thought?”

  “Yes. We think instantaneously. And if one believes in telepathy, it shouldn’t matter if the person, or entity, reading your thoughts is in the same room or in another galaxy.”

  “Wait a minute. Do you believe in telepathy?”

  Eisler smiled.

  “I believe in everything, until it’s disproved. Perhaps it’s because I can’t get around much anymore and have too much time to think. Look at Stephen Hawking, his brain trapped by that terrible disease in a body that doesn’t function. All he can do is think. But such thinking it is!”

  Sudden was having a marvelous time. As a writer, he was widely read and knew more about modern physics than he had let on. But he was still astounded by the breadth of Eisler’s reasoning. And he thought he saw an opening.

  “So, doctor, space travel, travel between galaxies, is possible?”

  “Well, I like to think so. And I don’t believe you need theories about quantum mechanics or telepathy to prove it. If a spacecraft can approach the speed of light, which is theoretically possible, though not something we can do tomorrow, it will in a normal human life span be able to travel thousands of light years.”

  “You’ve lost me on that one, doc.”

  “According to Einstein, as the ship goes faster, time slows down within the ship. The time dilation means that a crew that has passed thousands of earth years on their spaceship has only aged 40 or 50 years, in their real time.”

  “But the world they left might not exist anymore!”

  “True. I’m only making the point that as a species, we may get to the stars even when constricted by the accepted laws of physics. There are atomic engines on the drawing boards that may be able to push a spacecraft up to 99 percent of the speed of light after only about a year of constant acceleration. Then, it’s off to the races. They will be traveling approximately 5.7 trillion miles per year after that. Multiply that number by a few thousand light years and scooting around the universe doesn’t look that daunting, does it? Still, I agree that such space travel would be quite an undertaking. Even only a few decades passed within the space craft, it would have to be huge to be self-sufficient, providing a livable atmosphere and sustenance. They’d surely run out of movies to watch. I imagine life aboard would be quite boring, unless the crew was put in some sort of stasis or suspended animation, which creates all sorts of other problems. No, I think to exploration of the universe lies elsewhere, perhaps in an Alcubierre drive.”