The Einstein Papers (11 page)

“Stop, we’re the good guys,” the man shouted with a Georgia drawl.

Taft quickly lowered his arm.

Choi was plucked from where he had been dropped by a second man, just as the helicopter carrying Yibo crossed the border, searchlight sweeping like a death ray.

The next few seconds seemed to last forever. Dust and leaves swirled about as a loud whining noise filled the forest. Crouching and placing his hands over his ears, Taft buried his eyes in his shirt.

Like the phoenix rising from the dead, a United States Marine Harrier jump jet hidden behind the hill rose directly into the path of the advancing helicopter. Massive spotlights on the Harrier’s wingtips lit night into day, while a second set of white-hot phosphorescent flares belched from the forward pods. A voice from both the plane’s radio and an external loudspeaker overrode the noise of the whining engines. The amplified voice said in Chinese, “Turn now or you will be destroyed.”

Eyes blinded by the spotlights and the flares, Yibo’s pilot jammed his cyclic to the side. The helicopter turned back from the border and hovered. The troops racing up the hill paused, unsure if they should advance.

The loudspeaker continued. “This is Captain Don Chin, United States Marine Corps. We are on joint exercises with the Republic of Kazakhstan. Any violation of the Republic’s sovereign border will be met with force. Retreat immediately and maintain a minimum distance of one mile from the border.”

At that instant Taft was grabbed by the shoulder.

“Now,” the man dressed in black shouted.

Crashing through the forest, the four men reached an armored Humvee a short distance away. Taft and Choi were pushed in the backseat. The soldiers dressed in black climbed in front. The driver turned the key and without a moment’s hesitation the Humvee raced away, heading west from the border. In less than twenty seconds, the Humvee was doing sixty miles an hour on the narrow dirt road.

The man in the passenger seat turned and spoke to Taft. “It’ll take us several minutes to reach the plane. Do you need some water or something?”

“I’ve got some coffee in a thermos,” the driver added.

Taft rubbed his palms across his face. “Force Recon?” he asked.

“How did you guess?” the man in the passenger seat asked.

“No one else would be crazy enough to attempt a stunt like that. You’re the only guys in the military that want to die for your country.”

“Semper fi,” the driver laughed.

“I’ll take that coffee,” Taft said wearily, “plus a cigarette if you have one.”

As the Humvee slid around a curve, narrowly missing a grove of trees, the marine in the passenger seat handed back the thermos, a pack of Camels, and a Zippo lighter.

“Kind of hard to believe,” Taft said.

“What’s that?’

“I quit smoking seven years ago,” he said as he lit the Camel and took a drag.

“The shit is really hitting the fan, sir,” the radio operator aboard the C-130 said as he continued monitoring the radio transmissions. “The ground commander, an officer named Jimn, is calling to Beijing to receive permission to cross the border,” he said, rapidly translating the radio messages.

“Order the Harrier to back away slowly,” Benson told the radio operator. “Keep a close eye on the radarscope,” Benson said to the radar man. “If the fighters cross the border, alert me immediately.”

“Force Recon reports they have both parties. They say they can see the lights of the C-130 now and estimate their arrival time at about four minutes,” the radio operator yelled to Benson.

“Warm your engines,” Benson said to Brable, who was already in the pilot’s seat, waiting for instructions.

“Roger,” Brable said as he reached to the overhead panel and flicked the switch to spin the starters.

In a matter of seconds smoke was pouring from the four turboprop engines. They quickly warmed to operating temperature. Brable waited for further orders.

“Is the Harrier away from the border?” Benson asked.

“He’s backing up. The pilot estimates he’s about two miles west of the border and as yet unchallenged.”

“Where’s the Humvee?”

“Less than one mile away and closing fast.”

“Order the Harrier to turn and retreat at full speed,” Benson ordered.

The radio operator shouted the order into the radio. The Marine Harrier turned and began to pick up speed; seconds later it shot past the C-130.

“Here they come!” one of the C-130’s riggers screamed from the rear door.

“Start down the runway,” Benson shouted to Brable, who immediately advanced the throttles. “Radio the Humvee we’re moving; order them to run up the ramp as we taxi,” Benson said to the radio operator.

“You’re gonna love this,” the driver shouted to Taft as soon as the message came over his radio earpiece.

Taft tossed the Camel butt out the window and took a last swig from the cup of coffee. “What now?” he asked.

“We’ve been ordered to drive up the ramp of the plane while it’s taxiing down the runway.”

“You guys ever try that before?” Taft asked.

“No, but I saw it in a movie once,” the driver said as he floored the throttle and raced after the retreating C-130.

The tension was as thick as mud in the cockpit of the Air Force Hercules as it taxied toward takeoff. Benson wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve.

“Jimn just received permission to cross the border. Beijing has ordered him to capture the escapees and return them for trial no matter what it takes,” the radio operator shouted to Benson.

“Let’s hope our backup plan works,” Benson said quietly.

The Humvee lined up behind the rear ramp of the retreating C-130. With a burst of speed the truck shot up the ramp. Tires slipping on the C-130’s metal floor, the Humvee screeched to a halt inches from the bulkhead to the cockpit. Taft waved at Benson through his open window.

“Ramp up. Take off,” Benson screamed to Brable.

Its throttles pushed to full, the C-130 sped faster down the runway. Brable watched his airspeed, then pulled back on the yoke and climbed into the air. He steered the plane west, away from the border with China.

“I’ve got a flight of seven jets as yet unidentified. They’re in a classic delta wing pattern approaching from the front at a very high rate of speed,” the radar operator of the C-130 shouted.

“Our baby-sitters have arrived,” said Benson. He began walking back to the cargo area.

“Son of a bitch!” Brable shouted from the pilot’s seat as a flight of Russian Mig-31E fighters raced past them heading east toward the border.

Within minutes after the Russian Migs appeared on the Chinese fighter’s radarscopes the prime minister quickly changed his mind about a cross-border excursion. Chinese air and ground forces were ordered to immediately retreat from the border.

“I need a heading, sir,” the navigator shouted back to Benson.

“First to Volgograd to refuel. Then we’re going home,” Benson yelled forward.

Leaning against the door of the Humvee, Benson smiled. “So, John, how was your trip?”

“So-so,” Taft said quietly.

“As usual you did an excellent job,” Benson said to Taft.

“That’s why I get the big money,” Taft said, turning his attention to Choi, now struggling to wake up. “Where’s the doctor on this plane? I made him a promise we’d fix his shoulder.”

After leaving the FBI archives, Martinez made his way to a nearby restaurant. Settling into a booth in the rear, he ordered coffee and a fried egg sandwich, then began to study the notes he had compiled about Einstein. He was most curious about Einstein’s last days-it was reported that the scientist was working feverishly up until the time of his death.

What did the scientist believe was so important that he would continue his labors even in frightful pain? Was the work simply the demented mathematical rambling of a man near death? Why did Einstein send a telegram to Niels Bohr in Denmark? What were his last words?

Martinez closed the file as the waitress brought over his fried egg sandwich. Returning with a pot of coffee, she topped off his cup, then retreated. Martinez stared at the sandwich. Plain white bread, not toasted and smeared with mayonnaise. He glanced at the egg inside. A round white orb with a yellow yolk that burned like the sun at the center. To the side of the sandwich was a handful of rippled potato chips and a wedge of dill pickle, which Martinez abhorred. Tossing the pickle into the ashtray, he took a bite of the sandwich, then washed it down with a sip of coffee. Then he reached into his pocket for his cellular phone.

“This is Agent Martinez,” he told the person that answered. “I’m driving to New Jersey this afternoon pursuant to my investigation. I’ll have my cellular phone with me if anybody needs to reach me.”

“Very good, Agent Martinez. I have a message for you from the deputy director. Do you want it now?”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

“The mission was successful,” the operator read. “They’re on their way home.”

“Thanks. That’s good news,” Martinez said as he switched off his phone.

Martinez quickly finished the sandwich, tossed a five-dollar bill on the table, and left. Climbing into his NIA-issued sedan, he glanced at a map, then began to drive north. The drive to the hospital in New Jersey where Einstein died would take less than three hours. Plenty of time for him to ponder his questions.

Twenty-three hours and twelve minutes after lifting off the runway in Kazakhstan, Taft twisted the key in the lock of his front door at his home in Virginia. He was aching, fighting jet lag, and had moved beyond merely tired to exhaustion. Stooping on the porch, he picked up several days’ supply of newspapers, then swung open the heavy wooden door. Dank air from inside the house washed across Taft’s face. It was obvious that sometime during his trip to China his dehumidifier had stopped working. With the Potomac River laying a mere fifty feet from his back door, his house was naturally damp.

Walking to the computer control panel for his house, Taft punched in his burglar alarm code, then scanned the panel to see what was wrong with the dehumidifier. The readout on the panel indicated the problem was a blocked water outlet. Taft unlocked his back door, found the outlet pipe next to his dryer vent, then with a stick removed several acorns stuffed into the opening by a rogue squirrel. A flood of water ran from the pipe, then slowed to a trickle.

Back inside he scanned the panel to find the dehumidifier was now running. Soon enough the air in the house would dry out. He would need to open a few windows to rid the house of the stale smell, but that could come later. Scrolling through the memory on the control panel, he found everything else had functioned properly in his absence.

Leaving his bags on the floor in the entryway, he walked into the kitchen, where he swung open the refrigerator door and reviewed the contents. With nothing else looking good, he decided he would make a sandwich.

He toasted two pieces of slightly stale sourdough bread and spread them with creamy Italian dressing. Next he layered ham, turkey, and roast beef on one half. Slicing an overripe tomato, he laid the juicy pieces on the second slice of bread, which was already layered with cream cheese. Finally, he slammed the two sides together and sliced the sandwich in half with a sharp knife that hung above the sink. In the back of the refrigerator he found a Blenheim’s ginger ale and popped off the bottle cap. Carrying sandwich and bottle to the kitchen table, he began to scan through the stack of old newspapers.

Finished with the sandwich, and bored with yesterday’s news, he was opening windows and watering his plants in the living room when the phone rang. He answered with a terse hello.

“Welcome back,” Martinez said easily. “I heard you were successful.”

Taft looked at the number readout on his phone. The readout was scrambled, indicating Martinez was calling from inside their office.

“I see you’re hard at work. Anything interesting happen while I was gone?” Taft asked his partner.

“A little. Your decoy’s out of China, his feet just went wet over international waters a few minutes ago. Other than that, I was doing an interesting research project that coincides with what you were working on. I’ll explain it when you get here.”

“Sounds good. You’ll forgive my lack of excitement over the decoy, but of course I had no idea of the plan,” Taft said as he placed the empty watering can back under the sink.

“Agent 24 was posing as a British archaeologist. The Chinese detained him for a while. We think it aided your escape. Of course he had no idea you were grabbing Choi, so he convinced them to release him without much difficulty.”

The total number of NIA operatives was just over fifty. To avoid the use of names, they were often referred to by number. The agent who had posed as Leeds, was 24. Special Agent Taft was number 7. Lucky 7. Taft had been one of the first agents recruited, fresh out of the army, nearly ten years ago.

“Glad to hear that. I’ll be sure to thank 24. Is Choi back with his family?” Taft asked, sitting down again in a kitchen chair.

“They’re flying him west for a reunion as we speak. We have a high-security compound in Colorado where they’ll live for the time being.”

“What exactly makes Choi so important?”

“It has to do with advanced physics. Einstein stuff.”

“I risked getting killed to kidnap a physicist that specializes in the works of a man who’s been dead over forty years?”

“It’s more involved than that. I’ll explain it to you when you get here.”

“Does it say anything in the report about Choi’s shoulder?” Taft asked, growing wearier by the minute.

“They have the shoulder in a splint. The doctors say it will be fine in time. Forget about him for now-he’s someone else’s problem now,” Martinez said. “The computer that controls your house called me last night, something with a blocked pipe. I was sending an agent over this morning when I received word you were due back.”

The security and physical systems of Taft’s home were tied to a computer. If he is away on a mission, which is often, he transfers it to Martinez for monitoring.

“Don’t bother. I already took care of it,” said Taft.