Sigma One (43 page)

Farther down the Strand, an early morning jogger dressed in a red Sun Valley sweatshirt and black running shorts plodded his way by. He was on his morning run and was breathing rhythmically with every other footfall. As he passed their patio window, he sidestepped the skateboarder and coughed as the chilly, foggy air filled his previously smoke-scarred lungs.

Neither the sound of the skateboard nor the rhythmic thumping of the jogger's Nikes were noticed by the trio inside, although the jogger's cough caused Debbie to stir slightly in her sleep and move closer to Burt.

The inside of their room was gray-dark like the den of an animal. A broken test tube, Kamarov's precious vile, lay discarded in the trashcan under the blue and red cardboard box which had earlier held the pizza they had eaten the night before. It was six o'clock in the morning, and although the dreary, slate-gray sky didn't show it, it was destined to be another wonderful day at the beach as soon as the thick marine layer burned off.

It was a shame the trio wouldn't get to enjoy it.

The surf was bigger than normal for this time of year, made so by a huge winter storm out in the Pacific, and pounded unmercifully on the sand some one hundred yards from their patio. Every ten seconds its ominous, low rumble-roar punctuated the morning silence.

It was to be their first day of battle and each of the three warriors knew it and rested. They dreamt, and every now and again, fitfully jerked in their sleep as thoughts of what they had to do flashed across their subconscious minds and made them restless.

Twenty five hundred miles away in Washington, it was already nine o'clock in the morning. A bitterly cold north wind rustled the piles of leaves in front of the brick colonial houses as the black limousine with smoke-colored bulletproof windows sped past.

It was headed toward the NSF.

Inside, Walker who was seated next to Radcliff, nervously clutched, then unclutched the handle of his briefcase containing his files on Kamarov, Mr. Grayson, and Ms. Debbie Andrews; (the latter Andrews file, being rather thin, Debbie having never lived outside Morrow Bay which made the security investigation that much easier.) Walker's palms were damp with perspiration and his hair, tussled. He hadn't slept since their escape.

It had been partly his fault the Soviet had gotten free--partly, but not entirely. His men could share equally in the blame. He had been the one who trusted them, though. And in spite of the fact he didn't believe their story about being magically (as they described it) disarmed by the Soviet, it apparently had been believed by his superiors and now he was going to catch the flak for their disappearance; and that made him nervous.

Pat, seated across from the CIA man and Radcliff, rubbed his game knee with his hand. His eyes watered as the smoke from Radcliff's cigar made its way into them.

He had received the phone call from Grayson only a couple of hours after his and Kamarov's disappearance, and even though the local authorities had cooperated fully and had set roadblocks up, somehow the trio had managed to escape. The phone company had been equally cooperative and had gotten the tap on the line in record time, but their efforts too failed. When Grayson called, he didn't stay on the line long enough to allow a trace to be made.

His message had been short--but not sweet!

Pat rubbed his eyes and played back in his mind the conversation he had had with Grayson earlier. He tried to remember not only what Grayson said but how he said it. He hoped to find some clue to his real intentions. Grayson couldn't have meant what he said. He couldn't have!

Or could he?

When Grayson's call came through back in Vegas, Pat had just gotten off the phone with Radcliff, having had to call to give him the bad news of their escape. Part of him was glad the pair had gotten away, the part of him that didn't want to see them die. The other part, though, wanted them to be captured and eliminated. He dreaded the thought of what they could do together.

The paramedics were still tending to Walker's men, and Gunter and Stearns were in the next room coordinating efforts with the Nevada Highway patrol to recapture the trio when the phone rang and Pat picked it up.

"Hello?" Pat said.

Burt didn't recognize his voice at first and had said nothing.

"Hello," Pat repeated.

"Huxley, is that you?" Burt had asked.

Pat blanched. It was Grayson.

"Burt, where are you?" He had asked.

Pat then remembered the initial shock he felt when he heard the voice. If he hadn't been so surprised by the call and hesitated as a result, he could have gotten the attention of the phone company man and maybe they could have established a trace. But he had been too slow. Instead, he had just held the phone and listened and had done nothing.

He cursed himself.

How could he have been so stupid?

(Radcliff blew another puff of smoke his way.)

Pat hacked and then closed his eyes as he tried to remember the rest

of
the conversation.

Burt started speaking.

Pat recalled his voice as being neither excited, nor desperate. Burt had simply sounded cocky--smug, in fact.

"He sounded that same way in the lab, just before he slammed my head against the desk," Pat thought. "That's it. He used that same tone of voice."

Pat had shuddered then when he heard Burt's intonation and he shuddered even more now. "What could that tone of voice have meant? Had Grayson gone off the deep end again like he did at the lab. If he did, what then?

Pat's eyes were running now. The smoke was thick in the limo.Burt's words echoed in his ears.

"Listen Huxley. Don't say a word!" Burt had said. "I'm only going to tell you this once!"

He had listened as ordered. "Uh, huh" was all he had uttered when Burt exploded into the phone.

"I said don't talk. Damn it!" And I mean it! You don't need to cough or do anything to let me know you're there. I can feel you. I can hear you breath. Now shut the fuck up and listen. And listen good!"

Pat had stopped another involuntary "uh, huh" in mid-"uh". He had

clone
as he was told.

Burt continued. "Okay, Huxley, Kamarov and I have come to a conclusion."

Pat had nodded, but had remained silent as he had been told.

"I know you and your FBI or CIA goons are never gonna’ leave me alone and Kamarov's already told me his people will be after him too, if they aren't already."

Pat had silently agreed. Both men would be hunted down and killed. There wasn't a place on earth the two could go where they would be safe: not with what they both knew; not with the powers they both possessed. Neither government would stand for that. Neither could afford the risk.

Burt continued. "So here's what we're gonna do!"

(The word "we" indicated to Pat that Burt and Kamarov were now acting as one, a situation far more serious than just the two of them escaping together and then going their separate ways as Pat had hoped they might do.)

Burt started again. "Unless you and the Soviets call off your bloodhounds and leave us alone, the whole world's gonna suffer," Burt then added, "BIG TIME! Got it? BIG TIME! Neither of us has a thing to lose!

Pat had cringed then, and his gut wrenched even worse now that he remembered the coldness in Grayson's voice. He had meant what he had said. But what did suffer mean?

The one-sided conversation continued.

"Kamarov already told me about his people's plans to blackmail the U.S. government into unilateral nuclear disarmament." Burt had said. He then paused momentarily enjoying the fact he might be telling Huxley something he didn't already know, like the warden who takes the prisoners by the chair each day to let them see where they'll meet their maker just to torment them.

He then began again angrily.

"Pretty fuckin' good plan, too. And I know. You and your crew were gonna use me to do the same thing to them."

Then he had laughed, a sardonic cruel laugh; a laugh of a man who really didn't have anything to lose; a laugh that an executioner who really enjoyed his work would use before letting the guillotine fall.

"Well guess what, Huxley? We ain't gonna be used again. Not by you. Not by the Soviets. Get it?”

(Pat didn't.)

Not by anyone!" Burt answered Pat's unspoken question and continued slowly, chewing each word before spitting it out--savoring the threats he was making.

"The tables have been turned now, and unless you leave us alone, Kamarov and I are gonna use you like you were gonna use us. We're gonna use you good. And you know what? You know we can do it, too!"

Pat could hold his tongue no longer. He had to speak then. He wished now he hadn't.

"What do you mean Grayson, you'll use us? Listen--you're out of your head. You're sick and unless you get some help, according to Dr. Jerome, you'll go off the deep end." Pat should have stopped there, but didn't. Grayson hadn't tried to make him quit talking.

"You read the report, Pat continued, "O'Shaunnesey's heart stopped as a result of linking. That's the only reason he didn't end up in an insane asylum."

"You've got to listen."

"You'll end up worse than your brother, Daniel!" (Pat shouldn't have said that. He knew it but couldn't help himself.)

"We can help you. Help you both. And we will. Just don't do something both you and Kamarov will regret.For the love of God," Pat pleaded.

CLICK--The receiver went dead.

"For the love of God," Pat repeated over and over again into the dead line "Don't!"

The limousine pulled to a halt in front of the NSF stopping behind four other government vehicles and Pat, Walker, and Radcliff got out one by one, each man pulling his overcoat tight around his neck against the wind.

None spoke.

As they finished climbing the stairs and got to the glass doors that marked the front of the National Security Foundation building, another limousine bearing the distinctive red flag emblazoned with the gold sickle hammer and star, screeched to a halt.

Four Soviet diplomats hurriedly exited and then joined Walker, Radcliff and Huxley at the door--the same one through which Burt had pas -cd just days before. All seven entered quickly to get out of the cold.

Simmons, his arm still in a sling across his body, met them and had each sign in.

"Everyone's here, sir, " he said to Huxley as Pat was punching in the code into the cypher lock. Pat turned and nodded to Simmons indicating he understood. Radcliff had told him earlier all the committee members-except Lassiter would be present. What he failed to tell Pat, though, was what the meeting would be about, although Pat thought he knew.

After a short walk down the hall to the conference center and the

preliminary
introductions were made all around, the seven men took seats at the long table in the center of the room.

After Pat was seated, he looked around at the familiar faces.

Dr. Gandliong, surreptitious siphoner of aids research money sat next to him. He looked just as old and just as disheveled as he ever did. His pocket liner was still full of pens and the old scientist had the glazed look in his eyes which to some marked the look of intelligence, where really, in this case, it was simply boredom.

Ms. Robinson, the Green Peace Representative, who was now engaged to Butterworth, the stocky Office of Management and Budget beancounter at her side, sat next to the old scientist.