“You’re saying their spells actually lasted that long,” Harry surmised.
“Now we come to the real problem, because according to Gladys Baker’s watch those forty minutes didn’t exist.”
“You’ve lost me, Winter Man.”
Bane hesitated. “The plane didn’t just disappear, it ceased to exist, went into some kind of time warp or something. Forty minutes went by but for the passengers only seconds had passed.”
“Wow,” from Harry.
“Remember, there was no radio contact at all with the cockpit during the missing period. The people came back and so did the plane. But whatever happened in the interim cost Jake Del Gennio his life and maybe sixty people their minds.”
“And you’re saying whatever COBRA did had nothing to do with people in a direct sense,” Janie put forth.
“I can’t be sure of that,” Bane told her. “I just believe the extreme effects the passengers suffered weren’t planned for or expected. Things got out of control.”
“You figure that had anything to do with Flight 22 having engine trouble along the way?” Harry wondered.
“Possibly. But there’s no way of being sure at this point whether that was a cause or an effect.”
“Well Lord fuck a duck, then we’re right back where we started,” the Bat moaned.
“Not really,” said Bane. “We’ve got the Einstein connection now, and if we plug that in with what we already know, we might be able to uncover what COBRA’s up to with all this, at least get a general idea of what they’re working on.”
“Not necessarily,” Janie interjected. “If this operation was still in the research stage, no one outside of San Diego would have to know about its existence and that includes the White House and the Pentagon, so you can forget about learning anything there.”
“Terrific …”
“Relax, Harry,” Bane soothed. “The pieces of this puzzle are starting to fall together.”
“As long as we don’t go down with them,” from the Bat.
Colonel Chilgers closed the bulky file on Joshua Bane. He had been analyzing it for six hours until he’d found what he was looking for. He contacted Scalia.
“An interesting assignment, Colonel,” Scalia told him plainly over the phone.
“The logistics promise to be difficult.”
“I look at them as challenging … and expensive.”
“Your price will be met.” Chilgers hesitated. “You’ll be working with Trench.”
“I work alone.”
“I feel the logistics would be better served by the two of you.”
Chilgers could feel the coldness coming over the line.
“It’s your money,” Scalia said finally. “But I don’t trust Trench. He thinks too much. He’s played the Game on too many sides.”
“And you?”
“Money has no side, Colonel.”
“Tomorrow’s timing is certain to be very delicate. The two of you together should assure against any slip-ups.”
“A quick hit on Bane would seem more logical.”
“Matters have progressed way beyond that.”
“As you wish.” Then, “You’re certain about the information in Bane’s file?”
Chilgers toyed with the edges of the manila folder. “Absolutely.”
“We’ll talk tomorrow, Colonel.”
Scalia hung up. First.
Chilgers hated him and was content that they’d never have to meet. The colonel did not relish the sensation of being controlled, of having this killer’s upper hand waved in his face. Scalia was nothing but a repairman, called in when something had gone wrong. He fixed the problem, collected his fee, and went on his way. So banal. So trite. And yet he had spoken to Chilgers in a demeaning and sententious manner. Chilgers steamed, smiled finally at the thought of sending Trench after Scalia when this was over, then quickly changed his mind. Crossing Scalia could cost him much and gain him little.
A knock sounded on the door of his spacious, wood-lined office.
Chilgers lit his pipe and puffed it. “Come in, Teke.”
The doctor entered and took a chair directly before Chilgers’ desk.
“I called you here, Doctor, to ask you a few questions. I want your answers to be honest and accurate, wholly so on both counts.”
Teke nodded, his bald dome showing a day’s growth of stubble on its sides.
Chilgers pulled the pipe from his mouth. “Has Project Placebo reached a point where Professor Metzencroy’s contributions are no longer required?”
Teke didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely.”
“Then am I to assume, Doctor, that the professor is now superfluous to the ultimate completion of Vortex, that the operation can be completed without him?”
“Most certainly.” Again, no hesitation.
“In your answers you have laid personal feelings aside, Teke?”
“My answers are strictly professional, Colonel.”
Chilgers smiled and forgot all about Scalia. Wordlessly, he reached for the phone.
The colonel elected to remain at the base all evening. It was hardly an unheard-of practice for him, so no undue attention would be aroused because of it. The risk would have been worthwhile in any case; he wanted to be here when news of Metzencroy’s death reached the complex. The matter had to be handled tactfully in a way that would cause not even the slightest repercussions. Chilgers could afford nothing less at this stage.
There would be questions, of course, but these would be easily answered. He had arranged that the professor’s medical report be revised to indicate a history of heart trouble. That way the final attack which would soon claim his life would arouse a bare minimum of suspicion, perhaps none at all. The drug used was very fine, only a small amount being required to do the job, and it was undetectable after two hours under even the closest autopsy. Chilgers knew all about it.
The drug had been developed at COBRA.
The colonel slept not one wink all evening. There were plans to revise, details to revamp. Metzencroy was a brilliant man, and there was no doubt he would be missed in certain quarters. Hell, Chilgers reflected, if not for the professor there never would have been a Vortex or a Project Placebo. Twenty years of patient research and testing had placed the United States on the verge of unchallenged global domination, thanks to a man who would not be alive to see it.
Chilgers did feel some compunction over the necessity of the professor’s passing, though he did not let it show on his features. Metzencroy had clearly proven himself to be too much of a threat. It would not be easy replacing him, but it would have been even harder to have his every move monitored. If allowed to continue working at COBRA, Metzencroy might, conceivably, have resorted to sabotage or, worse, exposure, thereby destroying Vortex and erasing all his brilliant work.
Chilgers spent the night running all this through his head, further convincing himself of the necessity for his decision. Murder was nothing new to him. A man who couldn’t stomach it certainly didn’t belong in his position, or in any position of power for that matter.
Strangely, the only thing that didn’t occur to him as the dark hours gave way to light was the possibility that Metzencroy’s suspicions, his fears, might have been correct. Chilgers’ vision was clear, but narrow. He could not consider the professor’s final reports as anything but absurdity because the consequences they posed were too awful to contemplate.
Metzencroy had threatened Vortex.
All threats to Vortex had to be put aside at all costs, at any costs.
Five levels above him, the sun had come up when Chilgers’ phone rang at almost the precise minute he expected it to. The voice was that of a COBRA security guard sent to gather Professor Metzencroy at his home for an emergency meeting.