“Quite possibly,” Sam agreed. “It is the pages to knowing…and now I know all this because Werner called me less than 20 minutes ago, also asking for your help.” In saying all of this Sam couldn’t shake the guilt he felt for laying so much on Purdue after his efforts were so unceremoniously rebuked by Nina Gould.
Purdue was amused, if anything. “Wait just a second, Sam. Let me get my notes and a pen.”
“Are you running a tab?” Sam asked. “If not, I think you should. I feel bad, man.”
“I know. And you look like you sound too. No offence,” Purdue said.
“Dave, you can call me dog shit right now and I wouldn’t care. Just please say you can help us with this,” Sam begged. His big dark eyes looked droopy and his hair unkempt.
“Now, what must I do for the lieutenant?” Purdue asked.
“When he returned to base he learned that Schmidt had sent Himmelfarb, one of the men in the recording gone turncoat, to capture and hold his lady friend. And we should care about her because she was Nina’s nurse in Heidelberg,” Sam explained.
“Okay, points for the lieutenant’s lady friend, named?” asked Purdue, pen in hand.
“Marlene. Marlene Marx. They had her call Werner after they killed the doctor she’d assisted. The only way we can locate her is through a trace on her call to his cell phone.”
“Got it. Will forward the information to him. Text me his number.”
On the screen, Sam was already shaking his head. “No, Schmidt has his phone. I’m texting you his number for the trace, but you can’t contact him there, Purdue.”
“Oh, shit, of course. I’ll forward it to you, then. When he calls, you can give it to him. Okay, so let me get on these tasks and I’ll contact you soon with the results.”
“Thank you so much, Purdue,” Sam said, looking exhausted, but grateful.
“No problem, Sam. Give the Fury a kiss for me and try not to get your eyes scratched out.” Purdue smiled as Sam chuckled mockingly back at him before disappearing in a blink of blackness. Purdue was still smiling well after the screen had gone blank.
Chapter 30 — Desperate Measures
Even though the media broadcasting satellites were mostly dysfunctional across the board, there were still some radio signals and internet sites that had managed to infect the world with the plague of uncertainty and exaggeration. On the remaining social media profiles that could not yet be locked, people conveyed the panic of the current political climate, along with the reports of assassinations and threats of World War III.
By the corruption of servers in the major centers of the planet, people everywhere naturally came to the worst conclusions. According to some, the internet was under assault by a mighty faction of everything from aliens about to invade earth to the Second Coming. Some of the more dimwitted thought that the FBI was responsible, somehow deeming it more helpful to national intelligence to ‘make the internet crash’. And so every country’s citizens took to all that was left to show their discontent — the streets.
Major cities were inundated with riots, and mayoral offices had to account for the communication embargo, which they could not. At the top of the W.U.O. tower in London, a distraught Lisa looked down on a bustling city full of discord. Lisa Gordon was second in command of the organization that had recently lost its leader.
“My God, just look at that,” she said to her personal assistant as she leaned against the window pane of her 22nd Floor office. “Human beings are worse than wild animals as soon as they have no leaders, no teachers, nor any emissary with authority. Have you noticed?”
She watched the looting from a safe distance, but still wished she could talk sense into them all. “Once the order and leadership of countries falters even slightly, citizens think that destruction is the only alternative. I’ve never been able to understand that. There are just too many different ideologies begotten by fools and tyrants.” She shook her head. “We’re all speaking different languages while at the same time trying to live together. God help us. This is Babel all over.”
“Dr. Gordon, the Meso-Arabian Consulate is on Line 4. They need confirmation for Professor Sloane’s appointment at the Sultan’s palace in Susa tomorrow,” the personal assistant said. “Shall I still use the excuse that she is ill?”
Lisa turned to face her assistant. “Now I know why Marta used to bemoan having to make all the decisions. Tell them she will be there. I’m not shooting this hard-earned endeavor in the foot yet. Even if I have to go there myself and beg for peace, I will not let this pass because of terrorism.”
“Dr. Gordon, there is a gentleman on your main line. He has a very important proposal for us regarding the peace treaty,” the receptionist said, peeking around the door.
“Hayley, you know we do not take calls from the public here,” Lisa reprimanded.
“He says his name is David Purdue,” the receptionist added reluctantly.
Lisa swung around. “Put him through to my desk immediately, please.”
After hearing Purdue’s suggestion that they use an impostor to take the place of Prof. Sloane, Lisa was more than a little taken aback. Of course, he had not included the ludicrous use of a mask to assume the woman’s face. That would have been a tad too macabre. Still, the suggestion of a changeling rattled the sensibilities of Lisa Gordon.
“Mr. Purdue, much as we at the W.U.O. Britain appreciate your ongoing generosity toward our organization, you have to understand that such an act would be fraudulent and unethical. And as I am sure you understand, those are the very methods we oppose. It would make hypocrites of us.”
“I do, of course,” Purdue replied. “But think about it, Dr. Gordon. How far would you bend the rules to achieve peace? Here we have a sickly woman — and have you not been using illness as a scapegoat to avert confirmation of Marta’s death? And this lady, who has an uncanny resemblance to Marta, is offering to mislead the right people for but a moment in history to establish your organization within its chapters.”
“I–I w-would have to…think about it, Mr. Purdue,” she stammered, still unable to make up her mind.
“You had better hurry, Dr. Gordon,” Purdue reminded her. “The signing is tomorrow, in another country, and time is running out.”
“I shall contact you as soon as I have spoken to our advisers,” she told Purdue. Internally, Lisa knew it was the best solution; no, the only one. The alternative would just be far too costly and she had to forcefully weigh her morals against the greater good of all. It was really no contest. At the same time, if she were to be discovered plotting such deception, Lisa knew she would be held accountable and probably indicted for treason. Forgery was one thing, but to be a knowledgeable accessory to such a political travesty — they would have her tried for nothing short of a public execution.
“Are you still there, Mr. Purdue?” she cried out suddenly, looking at her desk phone system as if it displayed his face.
“I am. Shall I make the arrangements?” he asked cordially.
“Yes,” she affirmed firmly. “And this must never, ever surface, do you understand?”
“My dear Dr. Gordon. I thought you knew me better than that,” Purdue replied. “I will send Dr. Nina Gould and a body guard to Susa on my private jet. My pilots will use W.U.O. clearance under the assumption that the occupant is indeed Prof. Sloane.”
After they ended the call, Lisa found her demeanor somewhere between relieved and terrified. She paced around her office with her shoulders hunched and her arms folded tightly, contemplating what she had just agreed to. Mentally she was checking all her bases, making sure each was covered with a plausible excuse in case the charade came to light. For the first time was happy about the media delays and persisting blackouts, having no idea that she was in cahoots with the people responsible.