Paradigms Lost (30 page)

A week into my work and I wasn’t any closer to figuring out how to approach Senator MacLain without opening about a dozen cans of worms that were better left closed. On the other hand, I was starting, I thought, to close in on the location of this mysterious Project. The break had come a few days ago, when a search program had highlighted the Organization for Scientific Research. A check showed that not only had the OSR always been heavily involved in biological research, but it previously had a couple of branches in the far East—one in or very near Vietnam. During the ’70s, those labs were closed. A bit of digging on my part, however, showed that the discontinuance had actually been a transfer of ownership to interested parties, probably in the Viet government. Details on the site were vague; the OSR files from the ’70s were hard to access, since it had begun as a UN venture but had separated from the UN and become a private corporation, so it was possible all the old records not directly relevant to operation had been purged. And stuff that old often wasn’t online anywhere in any case.

It might be possible, however, to take the vague info I had gathered and combine it with a careful modeling of the layout as Kafan remembered it to see if a pattern-recognition program could come up with anything using satellite photos of the area. There were probably records of the installation on one of the intelligence computers—NSA, CIA—but I wasn’t about to try hacking one of those. This had to be an independent operation. With Verne’s backing, at least we didn’t need to worry about whether we could afford it.

That brought up the next problem: Verne. Syl had tried a number of things with him regarding his health, and though it appeared to have helped some, within a few days, he had deteriorated again. He was visibly older.

I closed my eyes. Genetically engineered people, ancient civilizations, vampires, priests. . . . damn, it was a wonder my head didn’t explode. All that stuff combined was enough to . . .

All that stuff combined?

I straightened. Reaching out, I grabbed the phone. “Verne? Sorry to disturb you, but I just thought of something.”

Verne’s weariness was now evident in his voice. It was still as rich as ever, but the underlying tone lacked the measured certainty that was usually there. “And what is that, Jason?”

“Verne, you talked about how certain forces might have returned, right? Isn’t it possible that what’s happening to you is an attack? Maybe even carried out—unconsciously—by Kafan?”

The silence on the other end was very long. Then:

“Not merely possible . . .” Verne said slowly, “. . . but even probable. In all these thousands of years, nothing like this has ever happened to me. Can it be coincidence that it happens now, of all times? Most unlikely. My brain has been affected as well, if I did not think of this myself.”

“Is there a way to find out?”

“There is,” Verne said. “With Sylvie’s help, Morgan and I should be able to determine if any outside mystical forces are operating here.”

“What about biological? You did say that living things could affect you.”

Verne hesitated a moment, considering. His voice, given hope, was stronger now. “I do not believe any disease, howsoever virulent, could affect me without some small mystical component. This was one of the Lady’s blessings, and it is not within the power of ordinary science to gainsay that, even in this era. My metabolism differs so greatly from that of anything else on this world that I doubt it would be recognized by most tests. No, if this is an attack, it must be a magical one. Thank you, Jason.”

“No problem. Will you need me for anything?”

“No, my friend. You have given all that was necessary. We will endeavor to make this as short as possible, that your lady be not unduly inconvenienced.”

“Is it that obvious to everyone?”

Verne’s laugh was the first genuinely cheerful response I had heard from him in a week. “Jason, such things are always obvious. And welcome, I assure you. You have finally accepted that which was always in your heart.”

“Don’t you start. I may have been slow and dumb, but I don’t have to be reminded every day.”

He chuckled. “Good night, Jason.”

CHAPTER 43

Beware of Spooks Leaving Gifts

I stared down at the disk in my hand. The fact that it contained potentially treasonous information made it feel as heavy as lead. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the worst thing I had to deal with. My date with Sylvie last night, our third “real” date, had been bittersweet at best. We were happy to be together finally, but our enjoyment was overshadowed. Despite three days of careful work, Syl, Verne, Morgan, and their few other trusted contacts had turned up precisely nothing. My “brilliant idea” was a washout, and Verne was worse than ever. He would improve slightly for a few hours, but the mysterious illness always came back. No mystical influences alien to the house. No mental controls on Kafan that they could find. Nothing.

I sighed. Syl wasn’t coming over today—the Silver Stake had three shipments that needed to be classified, and she didn’t want to be faced with Verne right now anyway.

I glanced at an envelope on my desk—one which, under any other circumstances, would have me calling Syl for champagne and a very, very expensive dinner out. But it barely gave me a momentary smile. I sighed; putting the CD into a protective case, I put the case into my backpack. Time to send it off for delivery.

As I opened the front door, I saw a package lying on the doorstep. I picked it up, noting that it had no mailing stamps, return address, or postal marks of any kind.

Belatedly, it occurred to me that I might expect to start getting mail bombs soon. Well, if it was a bomb, it wasn’t motion-activated. I hefted it a couple of times. It was light;
not much more than paper in here
, I thought. There could be enough plastique in it to do serious damage, though. It didn’t take much high explosive to do a number on you.

I shrugged.
Not likely to be a bomb, what the hell.
I ripped it open.

No explosions. Looking inside, I saw an envelope and a sheet of paper. It was a note:

Jason, you have the goddamned devil’s luck. Here are the IDs. Destroy the disk. Since I know you’re too damn curious for your own good, I’ll let you in on this latest development: somehow, whatever you’re up to got the attention of one of my bosses and he caught me. Instead of shutting us down, he told me to make the IDs. Must be personal—he told me not to mention this to the other members of our group. So this one’s free. But I’d worry, if I were you. If HE thinks you’re involved in something important enough to let you off a felony charge without so much as a warning, you’re playing with nukes, not fire.

The Jammer

I stared at the package, then opened the envelope. Birth certificate . . . passport . . . driver’s license . . . Jesus, even documents showing he was proficient in woodworking and construction, as well as a Black Belt certification from Budoukai Tai Kwan Do in California. I looked closer. The passport was genuine—seal and all.

Who
were
these people? And what the hell had I gotten myself into
now
?

CHAPTER 44

Paternity and Possibility

“Senator MacLain?”

“This is Paula MacLain. Mr. Jason Wood?” The voice on the other end was as distinctive over the phone as it was in public address or on television: precise, educated, pleasant yet cool, that carried both authority and intelligence; it reminded me of Katharine Hepburn.

“Yes, ma’am. I don’t know if you know who I am—”

“Young man, if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be speaking to you.” There was a tinge of humor that took any sting out of the words. “In any case, a United States senator who isn’t aware of the recent events in Morgantown would be a sad example of a legislator, don’t you agree?”

“I certainly do, Senator. And I certainly didn’t mean to imply—”

“Don’t concern yourself with my feelings, Mr. Wood. I know when offense is intended and when it isn’t. Now that you and I have finally managed to connect, let’s waste no more time. What can I do for you? You were intriguingly uninformative to my staff.”

I took a deep breath. I’d decided to go for the most honest route I could, while tapdancing around the more dangerous areas. “Senator, a few weeks ago, a man walked into my office asking me for help in locating his family. To make a long story short, he originally comes from Vietnam. And the descriptions of his two children, and pictures made from those descriptions, match those of your adopted children in great detail.”

There was a long silence. I’d expected as much, given her history. Finally, “That . . . is quite remarkable, Mr. Wood. Am I to presume that you would like to find a way to confirm that they are, or are not, your client’s children? And that he would subsequently want to obtain custody of them, if they are indeed his children?” Her voice was carefully controlled, but not perfectly so; she wasn’t taking this as calmly as she’d like me to think.

“Basically correct, Senator. But we also don’t wish to distress the children, either by giving them false hopes or by forcing them to leave a stable home. What I was hoping was that we could permit someone you trust to take a sample for genetic comparison and do a paternity test.”

Senator MacLain was known for her quick decisions. “That much I will certainly do. But I must warn you and your client, Mr. Wood: I will never relinquish custody of my children unless I am absolutely certain that they will be happy and well-cared for, regardless of who is the blood parent. I love them both very much.”

I nodded, though she couldn’t see it. “Senator . . . we expected no less, and to be honest if you felt any differently you wouldn’t be a fit mother for them. It’s not going to be easy either way, but I assure you, I feel the same way. I’ll make that clear to my client.”

“I appreciate that, Mr. Wood. And I appreciate, now, the trouble you went to to keep this all confidential. Let me see . . .” I heard the sounds of tapping on a computer keyboard. “Ah. If you would be so kind as to have the sample sent to Dr. Julian Gray, 101 Main Street, Carmel, New York, he will see to the comparisons. I have no trouble with your obtaining the samples for him; falsifying genetic evidence would seem a bit beyond anyone’s capacities at the present time.”

“Indeed. Thank you very much for your time, Senator. Good-bye.”

Maybe not beyond
anyone’s
capacities,
I thought as I hung up the phone,
but certainly beyond mine.

The invoice for the State Police job finished printing. I stuffed it into the package along with the originals and enhanced versions. Sealing it up, I affixed the prewritten label and dumped it into my outbox.

So much for the simple part of my current life.

It had taken a couple of days to install my newest machine, a Lumiere Industries’ TERA-5. Without Verne’s money, I’d still be looking at the catalog, drooling, and thinking “maybe next decade.” Now that it was up and running, I’d given it the biggest assignment I had: sorting through all the recent satellite data that I’d been able to find, beg, borrow, or . . . acquire, and looking for various indications of hidden installations. So far, it had given me at least twenty positives, none of which had turned out promising. I was starting to wonder if there was a bug in the program; some of the positives were pretty far outside of the parameters of the installation as described by Kafan. There was one that might be a hidden POW camp—I’d forwarded that to one of the MIA-POW groups I knew about. I didn’t think those camps existed anymore, but maybe there was more than hearsay behind the rumors.

The TERA-5 was chugging away, meter by detailed meter on the map; this was going to take a while, even for the fastest commercially available general-purpose machine ever made. Although a machine specifically designed for map-comparison searching would be far faster, it be a lot more expensive, and next to useless for anything else; there’s always a catch somewhere. I preferred to wait a little longer and have a use for the machine later on as well. My only consolation was that only an intelligence agency likely had better equipment and programs for the job.

I thought about Verne. Given the situation with his health, I didn’t know what good this was going to do. Without Verne, we were helpless, even if I could locate the installation. I looked sadly down at the thick document on my desk. Verne’s will. Morgan as executor, Kafan and his family as major heirs, and, maybe not so surprisingly, me and Sylvie figuring prominently in it as well. There were also bequests to his efficient and often nearly invisible staff. The sight of the will told me more than I needed to know. Verne knew his time was up.

My friend was dying. It hit me hard all of a sudden. I collapsed into my chair, angry, sad, and frustrated all at once. He’d been the gateway through which a whole world of wonder opened up for me, and he said I’d helped him regain his faith. It wasn’t
fair
that it end like this, with him wasting away to nothing for no explainable reason.

And there was nothing I could do. Last night, he’d taken us through his house to show us all of its secrets. “Just in case,” he said, but we knew there was no doubt in his mind. The place he called “the Heart,” built out of habit and tradition, only recently having been used by him for the purposes that it had existed . . . once more to become an unused cave when he died. All his papers, books, and tablets, here and elsewhere.

He’d found his lost son, I’d found his son’s children, and for what? He wouldn’t live long enough to see them reunited. Dammit! I slapped at the wall switch, killing the lights as I turned to leave.

Then I froze.

I remembered what I’d said to Verne months ago, when Virigar first arrived: “I don’t like coincidences. I don’t believe in them.”

What if my idea was still basically true?

There was just one possibility. I switched the lights back on, spun the chair around, and rebooted the terminal. It was a crazy idea . . . but no crazier than anything else that had been happening. Just a few things to check, and I’d know.

It took several hours—the data was hard to find—but finally my screen lit up with some critical pieces of information. I grabbed my gun, spare magazines, a small toolbox, and a large flashlight and sprinted out the door.