The Doomsday Conspiracy (18 page)

Robert placed a call to Admiral Whittaker. A secretary answered the phone.

"Admiral Whittaker's office." Robert could visualize the office. It would be the kind of anonymous cubbyhole they kept for nonpersons the government no longer had any use for.

"Could I speak to the admiral, please? Commander Robert Bellamy calling."

"Just a moment, Commander."

Robert wondered whether anybody bothered to keep in touch with the admiral now that the once-powerful figure was part of the mothball fleet. Probably not.

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"Robert, it's very good to hear from you." The old man's voice sounded tired.

"Where are you?"

"I can't say, sir."

There was a pause.

"I understand. Is there something I can do for you?"

"Yes, sir. This is rather awkward because I've been ordered not to communicate with anyone. But I need some outside help. I wonder if you could check on something for me?"

"I can certainly try. What would you like to know?"

"I need to know whether there's a ranch anywhere in Texas called The Ponderosa."

"As in Bonanza?"

"Yes, sir."

"I can find out. How will I reach you?"

"I think it would be better if I called you, Admiral."

"Right. Give me an hour or two. I'll keep this just between ourselves."

"Thank you."

It seemed to Robert that the tiredness had gone out of the old man's voice. He had, at last, been asked to do something, even if it was as trivial as locating a ranch.

Two hours later, Robert telephoned Admiral Whittaker again.

"I've been waiting for your call," the admiral said. There was a satisfied note in his voice.

"I have the information you wanted."

"And?"

Robert held his breath.

"There is a Ponderosa ranch in Texas. It's located just outside of Waco. It's owned by a Dan Wayne."

Robert heaved a deep sigh of relief.

"Thank you very much, Admiral," Robert said.

"I owe you a dinner when I get back."

"I'll be looking forward to that, Robert." Robert's next call was to General Hilliard.

"I located another witness in Italy. Father Patrini." Page 106

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"A priest?"

"Yes. In Orvieto. He's in the hospital, very ill. I'm afraid the Italian authorities won't be able to communicate with him."

"I'll pass that on. Thank you, Commander." Two minutes later, General Hilliard was on the line to Janus.

"I've heard from Commander Bellamy again. The latest witness is a priest. A Father Patrini in Orvieto."

"Take care of it."

FLASH MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA

NSA TO DEPUTY DirECTOR SIFAR

EYES ONLY

COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPIES

SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY

5. FATHER PATR N-ORVETO

END OF MESSAGE

The headquarters of SIFAR is on Via della Pineta, on the southernmost outskirts of Rome, in an area surrounded by farmhouses. The only thing that would cause a passerby to give a second glance at the innocent, industrial-looking stone buildings occupying two square blocks would be the high wall surrounding the complex, topped by barbed wire, with security posts at each corner. Hidden in a military compound, it is one of the most secretive security agencies in the world, and one of the least known. There are signs outside the compound reading: Vietate Passare Oltre i Limiti.

Inside a Spartan office on the first floor of the main building, Colonel Francesco Cesar was studying the flash message he had just received. The colonel was a man in his early fifties with a muscular body, topped by a pitted, bulldog face. He read the message for the third time. So, Operation Doomsday is finally happening. una bella fregatura. It is good that we have prepared for this, Cesar thought. He looked down at the cable again. A priest.

It was after midnight when the nun walked past the desk of the night-duty nurses at the little hospital in Orvieto.

"I guess she's going to see Signora Fillipi," said Nurse Tomasino.

"Either her or old man Rigano. They're both on their last legs." The nun glided silently round the corner and walked directly into the priest's room. He was sleeping peacefully, his hands gathered almost as if in prayer, on his chest. A wedge of moonlight sliced through the blinds, casting a golden band across the priest's face. The nun removed a small box from beneath her habit. Carefully, she took Page 107

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out a beautiful cut-glass rosary and placed it in the old priest's hands. As she adjusted the beads, she drew one of them quickly across his thumb. A thin line of blood appeared. The nun took a tiny bottle from the box and, with an eye dropper, delicately squeezed three drops into the open cut.

It took only a few minutes for the deadly, fast-acting poison to work. The nun sighed as she made the sign of the cross over the dead man. She left as silently as she had come in.

FLASH MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA

SIFAR TO DEPUTY DIRECTOR NSA

EYES ONLY

COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPIES

SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY

5. FATHER PATRI NI-ORVETO-TERMINATED

END OF MESSAGE

Frank Johnson was recruited because he had been a Green Beret in Vietnam and was known among his comrades as the Killing Machine. He loved to kill. He was motivated and highly intelligent.

"He's perfect for us," Janus said.

"Approach him carefully. I don't want to lose him." The first meeting took place in an army barracks. A captain was talking to Frank Johnson.

"Don't you worry about our government?" the captain asked.

"It's being run by a bunch of bleeding hearts who are giving the store away.

This country needs nuclear power, but the damned politicians are stopping us from building new plants. We depend on the damn Arabs for oil, but will the government let us do our own offshore drilling? Oh, no. They're more worried about the fish than they are about us. Does that make sense to you?"

"I see your point," Frank Johnson said.

"I knew you would, because you're intelligent." He was watching Johnson's face as he spoke.

"If Congress won't do anything to save our country, then it's up to some of us to do something."

Frank Johnson looked puzzled.

"Some of us?"

"Yeah." Enough for now, the captain thought.

"We'll talk about it later." The next conversation was more specific. Page 108

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"There's a group of patriots, Frank, who are interested in protecting our world. They're pretty high-powered gentlemen. They've formed a committee. The committee may have to bend a few laws to get its work done, but in the end, it will be worth it. Are you interested?" Frank Johnson grinned.

"I'm very interested."

That was the beginning. The next meeting took place in Ottawa, Canada, and Frank Johnson met some of the members of the committee. They represented powerful interests from a dozen countries.

"We're well organized," a member explained to Frank Johnson.

"We have a strict chain of command. There's a Propaganda Division, Recruiting, Tactics, Liaison ... and a Death Squad." He went on.

"Almost every intelligence organization in the world is part of this."

"You mean the heads of-?"

"No, not the heads. The deputies. The hands-on people who know what's going on, who know what danger our countries are in." The meetings took place all over the world-Switzerland, Morocco, China-and Johnson attended all of them.

* * * It was six months before Colonel Johnson met Janus. Janus had sent for him.

"I've been given excellent reports about you, Colonel." Frank Johnson grinned.

"I enjoy my work."

"So I've heard. You're in an advantageous position to help us." Frank Johnson sat up straighter.

"I'll do anything I can."

"Good. At the Farm, you're in charge of supervising the training of secret agents in the various services."

"That's right."

"And you get to know them and their capabilities."

"Intimately."

"What I would like you to do," Janus said, "is to recruit those whom you feel would be most helpful to our organization. We're interested only in the best."

"That's easy," Colonel Johnson said.

"No problem." He hesitated a moment.

"I wonder-"

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"Yes?"

"I can do that with my left hand. I'd really like to do something more, something bigger." He leaned forward.

"I've heard about Operation Doomsday. Doomsday is right up my alley. I'd like to be a part of that, sir."

Janus sat there, studying him a moment. Then he nodded.

"Very well, you're in."

Johnson smiled.

"Thank you. You won't be sorry." Colonel Frank Johnson left the meeting a very happy man. Now he would have a chance to show them what he could do.

Day Eight Waco, Texas

Dan Wayne was not having a good day. As a matter of fact, he was having a dreadful day. He had just returned from the Waco county courthouse, where he was facing bankruptcy proceedings. His wife, who had been having an affair with her young doctor, was divorcing him, intent on getting half of everything he had (which could be half of nothing, he had assured her lawyer). And one of his prize bulls had to be destroyed. Dan Wayne felt that fate was kicking him in the balls. He had done nothing to deserve all this. He had been a good husband and a good rancher. He sat in his study contemplating the gloomy future. Dan Wayne was a proud man. He was well aware of all the jokes about Texans being loudmouthed, largerthan-life braggarts, but he honestly felt he had something to brag about. He had been born in Waco, in the rich agricultural region of the Brazos River valley. Waco was modern, but it still retained a flavor of the past, when the five C's had been its support: cattle, cotton, corn, collegians, and culture. Wayne loved Waco with all his heart and soul, and when he had met the Italian priest on the Swiss tour bus, he had spent almost five hours going on about his hometown. The priest had told him he wanted to practice his English, but actually, as he thought back on it, Dan had done almost all the talking.

"Waco has everything," he had confided to the priest.

"Our climate's great. We don't allow it to get too hot or too cold. We have twenty-three schools in the school district and Baylor University. We have four newspapers, ten radio stations, and five television stations.

We have a Texas Ranger Hall of Fame that will knock you out. I mean, we're talking history. If you like fishing, Father, the Brazos River is an experience you'll never forget. Then, we have a safari ranch and a big art center. I tell you, Waco is one of the unique cities of the world. You must come and pay us a visit." And the little old priest had smiled and nodded, and Wayne wondered how much English he really understood.

Dan Wayne's father had left him a thousand acres of ranchland, and the son had built up his cattle herd from two thousand to ten thousand. There was also a prize stallion that was going to be worth a fortune. Page 110

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And now the bastards were trying to take it all away from him. It wasn't his fault that the cattle market had gone to hell, or that he had gotten behind with his mortgage payments. The banks were closing in for the kill, and his only chance to save himself was to find someone who would buy the ranch, pay off his creditors, and leave him with a little profit.

Wayne had heard about a rich Swiss who was looking for a ranch in Texas, and he had flown over to Zurich to meet him. In the end, it had turned out to be a wild-goose chase. The dude's idea of a ranch was an acre or two with a nice little vegetable garden. She-eet!

That was how Dan Wayne had happened to be on the tour bus when that extraordinary thing occurred. He had read about flying saucers, but he had never believed in them. Now, by God, he certainly did. As soon as he returned home, he had called the editor of the local newspaper.

"Johnny, I just saw an honest-to-God flying saucer with some dead, funny-looking people in it."

"Yeah? Did you get any pictures, Dan?"

"No. I took some, but they didn't come out."

"Never mind. We'll send a photographer out there. Is it on your ranch?"

"Well, no. As a matter of fact, it was in Switzerland." There was a silence.

"Oh. Well, if you happen to come across one on your ranch, Dan, give me another call."

"Wait! I'm being sent a picture by some fellow who saw the thing." But Johnny had already hung up. And that was that. Wayne almost wished that there would be an invasion of aliens. Maybe they would kill off his damned creditors. He heard the sound of a car coming up the drive and rose and walked over to the window. Looked like an easterner. Probably another creditor. These days they were coming out of the woodwork. Dan Wayne opened the front door.

"Howdy."

"Daniel Wayne?"

"My friends call me Dan. What can I do for you?" Dan Wayne was not at all what Robert had expected. He had envisioned a stereotype of a burly Texan. Dan Wayne was slight and ~ristocratic-looking, with an almost shy manner. The only thing that gave away his heritage was his accent.

"I wonder if I might have a few minutes of your time?"

"That's about all I've got left," Wayne said.

"By the way, you're not a creditor, are you?" Page 111

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"A creditor? No."

"Good. Come on in."

The two men walked into the living room. It was large and comfortably furnished with western-style furniture.

"This is a nice place you have here," Robert said.

"Yeah. I was born in this house.

Can I offer you anything? A cold drink, maybe?"

"No, thanks. I'm fine."

"Have a seat."

Robert sat down on a soft, leather couch.