A limo would pick him up from his home and drive him to the airport for his flight to Denver International. All they asked was that he sign an ironclad confidentiality agreement, which included a provision that he not disclose how much he was being paid.
He wasn’t sure if he could believe it, but the next day he received an express package with a five thousand dollar advance.
Intellectual rewards appealed to him far more than financial ones, but ten thousand dollars for a day was ten thousand dollars for a day. Besides, he was intrigued. What could they possibly want from him that would warrant that kind of money? It wasn’t as if he kept any of his research confidential. If they wanted access to his work they could read his scholarly papers in one of several journals.
He had tried to get the woman to tell him what the consulting engagement would entail, but she had only assured him he wouldn’t need to prepare and he was the right man for the job. When he had asked for the center’s address, he had been told not to worry: that a driver would meet him at the airport and make sure he was taken the rest of the way to the facility in comfort.
A quick Internet search revealed a very professional webpage that spoke of the think tank’s mission—to extend the boundaries of human knowledge—and the large endowment it had received from anonymous donors. Other than this, there was not a single mention of CREX anywhere else online. Hard to imagine a think tank with such a professional website and money to burn wasn’t mentioned somewhere. If he’d Googled the name of the kid who bagged his groceries he’d probably get a dozen hits. In addition, the website didn’t have a “contact us” page, nor could an address be found anywhere.
Curioser and curioser.
He had considered backing out, but decided this would be an overreaction. It was no crime if a think tank backed by anonymous donors wanted to keep a low profile, and he was certain there were any number of perfectly legitimate reasons for wanting to do so.
His mind returned to the present, where the driver was leading him through a busy parking lot. The man stopped beside a silver industrial van, with no windows on the sides or back and no descriptors of any kind stenciled on. Van Hutten might have expected their facility to be depicted on the van, or at the very least the words, “Center for Research Excellence,” but once again they had decided to keep a low profile. At least they were consistent.
The driver opened the side doors. “Do you need a hand up, sir?” he asked.
Van Hutten hesitated. He liked the idea of being able to see where he was going, and the back of the van was a self-contained compartment that offered no means to do so. He opened his mouth to ask if he could sit in the passenger seat in front when he noticed it was unavailable—several large computer monitors had been carefully placed on the seat and floor. He frowned. “No, I can make it,” he said. “I’m not that old yet,” he added with a forced smile as he stepped into the van.
It was beautifully appointed, as luxurious and elegant as the inside of a high-end limousine, except more spacious. The ride was smooth and remarkably noiseless. Thirty minutes later the van wound up inside a small, underground parking lot and the driver led him through a door into what looked to be a newly built and very modern office building.
As he entered he was immediately met by a three person welcoming party. The first of these was a bear of a man who towered over all the others. He had long wavy hair and a bushy brown beard, and must have weighed three hundred pounds—although he was far from obese, just a land mass of his own. “Matt Griffin,” he said, sticking out a massive paw that looked capable of grinding van Hutten’s hand to paste, but which was soft and gentle as they shook. “It is a rare privilege and honor, sir,” added the human mountain, his voice as erudite and proper as the stodgiest Harvard professor.
“Thank you,” replied van Hutten as the man next to Griffin stuck out his hand. He was the oldest of the welcoming committee. His features were angular, his hair and mustache neatly trimmed, and he had a distinct military bearing about him, much like the driver.
“Jim Connelly,” said the older man as they shook hands. “Welcome to our facility.”
“Glad to be here.”
For the first time van Hutten turned his attention to the lone woman in the group, who had been partially hidden behind the gentle giant calling himself Matt Griffin, and his breath caught in his throat. She was absolutely stunning. She flashed him a dazzling, sincere smile that added even further to her appeal. Just standing there, doing nothing, she had a force of personality, a radiance, that was magnetic. His eyes decided they were quite content to rest on her for long periods of time and would not be easily coaxed to move on.
“Thank you so much for coming, Dr. van Hutten,” she said as she shook his hand, her hand and wrist delicate but strong.
“Please . . . everyone. Anton is fine.”
“Anton it is,” said the woman for them all. “Welcome to The Center for Research Excellence. I assume you recognize my voice.”
“Yes. You were the one who contacted me by phone. Devon, I believe.”
She winced in such a way that it was both devilish and apologetic at the same time. “Well, yes. But I have to say I mislead you about my name. Just in case you weren’t interested, I thought it better to go by Devon. Sorry about that. But no need for any subterfuge now. My name is really Kira. Kira Miller.”
He was already suspicious of this outfit, and this revelation only made him more so. He almost wanted to flee back home now, but a sinking feeling in his gut told him he was past the point of no return. And this woman, who had unabashedly admitted to giving him a false name, wore an expression so open and sincere, and was so clearly enthusiastic about meeting him, that he found himself strangely at ease.
His eyes refused to leave her face until he felt a gentle nudge from behind. The man who had driven him here was still present, and now his hand was outstretched. “I’m part of CREX as well,” he said. “I thought I’d wait until you met the others and then introduce myself properly.”
Van Hutten took the offered hand. He had suspected there was more to this man than met the eye.
“David Desh,” he said.
“Nice to meet you, David.”
Matt Griffin could barely contain his excitement. “You’re undoubtedly wondering why you’re here,” he said.
Van Hutten stifled a smile. For some reason he wanted to say, “undoubtedly,” in reply, but resisted the urge. “No question about it,” he replied instead.
“Good. We’ll get right to it then,” said Griffin, leading van Hutten and the others toward a conference room at the center of the building.
Kira Miller strode beside the physicist and said, “Just to warn you, some of what we’ll be telling you will seem a little outrageous. We fully expect you to be skeptical at first. All we ask is that you keep an open mind and give us the chance to convince you.”
The queasy feeling in the pit of van Hutten’s stomach returned with a vengeance. “You’ll have my full attention,” he replied.
He had no idea what he was getting into, but if worst came to worst, if they revealed themselves as some kind of quasi-scientific cult—the church of the quantum cosmological spirit or something equally lunatic—he was prepared to humor them: at least until he could remove himself from their company.
“You have me intrigued,” he said, deciding to begin humoring them now, just in case. “It sounds as if today may be more interesting than I thought.”
Kira glanced up at him without replying, but an amused bearing came over the affable giant lumbering next to her. “You have no idea,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “You really have no idea.”