The Doomsday Conspiracy (16 page)

The apartment door was opened by a tall, thin man with an untidy mop of white hair. He was wearing a tattered sweater and smoking a pipe. Page 92

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Robert wondered whether he had created the image of an archetypical college professor, or whether the image had created him.

"Professor Schmidt?"

"Yes?"

"I wonder if I might talk to you a moment. I'm with-"

"We have already talked," Professor Schmidt said.

"You are the man who telephoned me this morning. I am an expert at recognizing voices.

Come in."

"Thank you." Robert entered a living room crowded with books. Against the walls, rising from floor to ceiling were bookcases filled with hundreds of volumes. Books were stacked everywhere: on tables, on the floor, on chairs. The sparse furniture in the room seemed to be an afterthought.

"You're not with any Swiss tour bus company, are you?"

"Well, I-"

"You are American."

"Yes."

"And this visit has nothing to do with my lost glasses that were not lost."

"Well-no, sir."

"You are interested in the UFO I saw. It was a very upsetting experience. I always believed they might exist, but I never thought I would see one."

"It must have been a terrible shock."

"It was."

"Can you tell me anything about it?"

"It was-it was almost alive. There was a kind of shimmering light around it. Blue. No, maybe more of a gray. I-I'm not sure." He remembered Mandel's description: "It kept changing colors. It looked

..... - then green."

"It had broken open, and I could see two bodies inside. Small ... big eyes. They were wearIng some kind of silver suit."

"Is there anything you can tell me about your fellow passengers?"

"My fellow passengers on the bus?"

"Yes."

The professor shrugged.

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"I know nothing' of them. They were all strangers. I was concentrating on a lecture I was going to give the next morning, and I paid very little attention to the other passengers."

Robert watched his face, waiting.

"If it will help you any," the professor said1 "I can tell you what countries some of them came from. I teach chemistry, but the study of phonetics is my hobby."

"Anything you can remember would be appreciated."

"There was an Italian priest, a Hungarian, an American with a Texas accent, an Englishman, a Russian girl-"

"Russian?"

"Yes. But she was not from Moscow. From her accent, I would say Kiev, or very near there."

Robert waited, but there was only silence.

"You didn't hear any of them mention their names or talk about their professions?"

"I'm sorry. I told you, I was thinking about my lecture: It was difficult to concentrate. The Texan and the priest sat together. The Texan never stopped talking. It was very distracting. I don't know how much the priest even understood."

"The priest-"

"He had a Roman accent."

"Can you tell me anything more about any of them?" The professor shrugged.

"I'm afraid not." He took another puff on his pipe.

"I'm sorry I can't be of any help to you." A sudden thought came to Robert.

"You said you're a chemist?"

"Yes."

"I wonder if you would mind taking a look at something, Professor." Robert reached in his pocket and pulled out the piece of metal Beckerman had given him.

"Can you tell me what this is?"

Professor Schmidt took the object in his hand, and as he examined it, his expression changed.

"Where-where did you get this?"

"I'm afraid I can't say. Do you know what it is?" Page 94

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"It appears to be part of a transmitting device."

"Are you sure?"

He turned it over in his hand.

"The crystal is dilithium. It's very rare. See these notches here?

They suggest that this fits into a larger unit. The metal itself is ... My God, I've never seen anything like it!" His voice was charged with excitement.

"Can you let me have this for a few days? I would like to do some spectrographic studies on it."

"I'm afraid that's impossible," Robert said.

"But-"

"Sorry." Robert took back the piece of metal. The professor tried to conceal his disappointment.

"Perhaps you can bring it back. Why don't you give me your card? If I think of anything more, I'll call you."

Robert fumbled in his pockets for a moment.

"I don't seem to have any of my cards with me." Professor Schmidt said slowly, "Yes, I thought not."

"Commander Bellamy is on the line." General Hilliard picked up the telephone.

"Yes, Commander?"

"The latest witness's name is Professor Schmidt. He lives at Plattenstrasse 5 in Munich."

"Thank you, Commander. I'll notify the German authorities immediately." Robert was on the verge of saying "I'm afraid that's the last witness I'll be able to find," but something held him back. He hated to admit failure. And yet, the trail had become cold.

A Texan and a priest. The priest was from Rome. Period. Along with a million other priests. And there was no way to identify him. I have a choice, Robert thought. I can give up and go back to Washington, or I can go to Rome and give it one lasts....

Bundesverfassungsschutzamt, the headquarters of the Office for the Protection of the Constitution, is located in central Berlin on Neumarkterstrasse. It is a large, gray, nondescript building, indistinguishable from the buildings around it. Inside on the second floor, in the conference room, the chief of the department, Inspector Otto Joachim, was studying a message. He read it twice, then reached for the red telephone on his desk.

Day Six Munich, Germany

The following morning, as Otto Schmidt headed for his chemistry lab, he was thinking about the conversation he had had with the American the evening before. Where could that piece of metal have come from? It was astonishing, beyond anything in his experience. And the American Page 95

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puzzled him. He said he was interested in the passengers on the bus. Why? Because they've all been witnesses to the flying saucer? Are they going to be warned not to talk? If so, why didn't the American warn him? There's something strange going on, the professor decided. He entered the laboratory and took off his jacket and hung it up. He put on an apron to keep his clothes from getting soiled and walked over to the table where he had been working for many weeks on a chemical experiment. If this works, he thought, it could mean a Nobel prize. He lifted the beaker of sterile water and started to pour it into a container filled with a yellow liquid. That's strange. I don't remember it being such a bright yellow.

The roar of the explosion was tremendous. The laboratory erupted in a gigantic blast, and pieces of glass and human flesh spattered the walls.

FLASH MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA

BFV TO DEPUTY DIRECTOR NSA

EYES ONLY

COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPIES

SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY

4.

OTTO SCHMIDT-TERMINATED

END OF MESSAGE

Robert missed the news of the professor's death. He was aboard an Alitalia plane, on his way to Rome.

b ustin Thornton was getting restless. He had power now, and it was like a drug. He wanted more. His father-in-law, Willard Stone, kept promising to bring him into some mysterious inner circle, but so far he had failed to fulfill that promise. It was by pure chance that Thornton learned that his father-in-law disappeared every Friday. Thorton had called to have lunch with him.

"I'm sorry," Willard Stone's personal secretary said, "but Mr. Stone is away for the day."

"Oh, too bad. What about lunch next Friday?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Thornton. Mr. Stone will be away next Friday also." Strange. And it became even stranger, because when Thornton called two weeks later, he received the same reply. Where does the old man disappear to every Friday? He was not a golfer or a man to indulge in any hobbies.

The obvious answer was a woman. Willard Stone's wife was very social and very rich. She was an imperious woman, almost as strong in her way as her husband. She was not the sort of woman who would tolerate her husband having an affair. If he is having an affair, Thornton thought, I've got him by the balls. He knew he had to find out. With all the facilities at his command, Dustin Thornton could have found out very quickly what his father-inlaw was up to, but Thornton was no fool. He was well aware that if he made one misstep, he would be in big trouble. Willard Stone was not the kind of man to brook any interference in his Page 96

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life. Thornton decided to investigate the matter himself. At five A.M. on the following Friday, Dustin Thornton was slumped behind the wheel of an inconspicuous Ford Taurus, half a block from Willard Stone's imposing mansion. It was a cold, miserable dawn, and Thornton kept asking himself what he was doing there. There was probably some perfectly reasonable explanation for Stone's odd behavior. I'm wasting my time, Thornton thought. But something kept him there. At seven o'clock, the driveway gates opened, and a car appeared. Willard Stone was at the wheel. Instead of his usual limousine, he was in a small, black van used by the household staff A feeling of exultation spread through Thornton. He knew he was onto something. People lived according to their pattern, and Stone was breaking the pattern. It had to be another woman.

Driving carefully and staying well behind the van, Thornton followed his father-in-law through the streets of Washington to the road that led to Arlington.

I'll have to handle this very delicately, Thornton thought. I don't want to push him too hard. I'll get all the information I can about his mistress, and then I'll confront him with it. I'll tell him my only interest is in protecting him. He'll get the message. The last thing he wants is a public scandal.

Dustin Thornton was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he almost missed the turn that Willard Stone had taken. They were in an exclusive residential district. The black van abruptly disappeared up a long, tree-shaded driveway.

Dustin Thornton stopped the car, deciding on the best way to proceed. Should he face Willard Stone with his infidelity now? Or should he wait until Stone left and then talk to the woman first? Or should he quietly gather all the information he needed and then have a talk with his father-in-law? He decided to reconnoiter.

Thornton parked his car on a side street and walked around to the alley at the back of the two-story house. A wooden fence blocked off the back of the yard, but that was no problem. Thornton opened the gate and stepped inside. He was facing huge, beautiful, manicured grounds with the house at the rear.

He moved quietly in the shadow of the trees that lined the lawn and stood at the back door, deciding what his next move should be. He needed proof of what was going on. Without it the old man would laugh at him. Whatever was happening inside at this moment could be the key to his future. He had to find out. Very gently, Thornton tried the back door. It was unlocked. He slipped inside and found himself in a large, oldfashioned kitchen. There was no one around. Thornton moved toward the service door and pushed it open slightly. He was facing a large reception hall. At the far end was a closed door that could have led to a library. Thornton walked toward it, moving quietly. He stood there listening. There was no sign of life in the house. The old man is probably upstairs in the bedroom.

Thornton walked toward the closed door and opened it. He stood in the doorway, staring. There were a dozen men seated in the room around a large table.

"Come in, Dustin," Willard Stone said. Page 97

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"We've been expecting you.

Rome proved to be difficult for Robert, an emotional ordeal that drained him. He had honeymooned there with Susan, and the memories were overpowering. Rome was Roberto, who managed the Hassler Hotel for his mother, and who was partially deaf but could lip-read in five languages. Rome was the gardens of Villa d'Este in Tivoli, and the Ristorante Sibilla and Susan's delight at the one hundred fountains created by the son of Lucretia Borgia. Rome was Otello, at the foot of the Spanish Steps, and the Vatican, and the Colosseum and the Forum and Michelangelo's Moses. Rome was sharing a tartufo at Tre Scalini and the sound of Susan's laughter, and her voice saying, "Please promise me we'll always be this happy, Robert."

What the hell am I doing here? Robert wondered. I don't have any idea who the priest is, or whether he's even in Rome. It's time to retire, to go home and forget all this.

But something inside him, some stubborn streak inherited from a long-dead ancestor, would not let him. I'll give it one day, Robert decided. Just one more day. The Leonardo da Vinci Airport was crowded, and it seemed to Robert that every other person was a priest. He was looking for one priest in a city of-what? Fifty thousand priests? A hundred thousand?

In the taxi on the way to the Hassler Hotel, he noticed crowds of robed priests on the streets. This is impossible, Robert thought. I must be out of my mind.

He was greeted in the lobby of the Hassler Hotel by the assistant manager.

"Commander Bellamy! What a pleasure to see you again."

"Thank you, Pietro. Do you have a room for me for one night?"

"For you-of course. Always!"

Robert was escorted to a room he had occupied before.

"If there's anything you need, Commander, please..." I need a bloody miracle, Robert thought. He sat down on the bed and lay back, trying to clear his mind.

Why would a priest from Rome travel to Switzerland? There were several possibilities. He might have gone on vacation, or there might have been a convocation of priests. He was the only priest on the tour bus. What did that signify? Nothing. Except, perhaps, that he was not traveling with a group. So it could have been a trip to visit his friends or family. Or maybe he was with a group, and they had other plans that day.