The Martian Pendant (29 page)

The heist in California went
almost exactly as planned. Armed men disguised as Security were able to penetrate the lab at Buell and the facility at Caltech simultaneously, making off with all the metallurgic data and materials, as well as the vacuum chambers and other research equipment essential to unlocking the key to the Martian secrets.

At Caltech, they were discovered at the last moment. A
guard at the Pasadena facility was seriously injured, not by gunfire, which was avoided altogether, but by a gate slammed on him as a Mafia van, laden with loot, crashed through in a high-speed exit.

T
he FBI and the CIA were alerted by the institutions’ authorities, but by the time they sorted out their jurisdictional differences, the culprits had made a clean getaway.     Efforts to trace the stolen articles were unsuccessful, the only solid evidence being the means of their transportation out of California and perhaps out of the country. Earlier that night, a surplus Air Force C-54, owned by Flying Tigers Airfreight, had been commandeered by armed men, and when last seen, was heading east.

By the time the Pentagon was apprised of the sensitive nature of the
plane’s cargo, it was too late for the Air Force to intercept them. Later it was reported that a Flying Tigers four-engine aircraft had been refueled in Newfoundland, but nothing further surfaced, even in Europe, where NATO forces and Interpol had been put on alert. Nothing was ever learned of the fate of the plane and its cargo. It was obvious the hijacked C-54 with its stolen cargo had never reached China.

The Mafia had failed to deliver the goods to Beijing. They would have profited immensely from their twin caper at Caltech and Buell, selling the remaining fragments of the shattered second ship, and the investigators’ workbooks and lab equipment. While no Martian material
remained at either institution, the Dons in Chicago and Sicily were of one mind. What remained would still bring riches to their coffers, if they could locate it. They knew that the USSR, and possibly the Japanese Neo-imperialists, in addition to China, would pay them well. This time, they decided, they wouldn’t settle for a single buyer, and would demand half the money up-front.

Because Diana was the lead author of the paper that revealed the seminal findings, she became the object of intense scrutiny
, as she was probably the only person in the world now possessing any Martian data of potential military value. And, although no one appreciated its significance, she always wore that pendant, a rust-red pyramid that had been handed down for centuries in her family. She also retained her journal, with its photos and linguistic material, as well as the Martian book, apparently a technical manual and possibly a history of Mars, which could be the greatest prize of all if it could be translated. For a time, the mandible remained on display in Max’s office.

Only belatedly did the White House learn of the loss of the potentially vital military secrets, a revelation that led to a shake-up in the President’s Cabinet. The Director of the CIA was particularly embarrassed by the failure, considering that he had only one man,
albeit a promising young operative, assigned to the case. Unfortunately, at the time Dan Stuart was in Chicago with Diana. The day after the Mafia’s California caper, while lunching with her just off-campus, he received an urgent call from Langley.

“Stuart,” the voice snarled over the phone
that was brought to their table, “you’re relieved of your assignment.”

“But
, Chief,” he began, “I...”

“No buts, God dammit, you heard me. It seems you’ve lost more than your heart to a lady. While you were romancing her, everything connected to the African finding has been stolen, we think by the Mafia! You’ve bungled the chance of keeping the power of invincibility right here in your own country. Get the hel
l back to this office right now. I’m trying to figure out a new assignment for you. Maybe as an undercover agent in the Federal prison in Atlanta. That should keep you away from the ladies for a while!”

Diana heard the angry voice, but only
part of the message. Leaning forward, she saw Dan's shocked look. She put her hand over his, which was still gripping the phone, and ventured, “Sounds rather like the axe, considering the anger I could hear and what your face shows. Am I right, and what, in fact, is that about prison?”

“Yeah, you’re right,” D
an replied. “It seems that while I was here in Chicago to be near you, I screwed up royally, failing to see the long arm--or rather the long tentacle--of the Mafia reaching over to the U.S. They snatched the Martian stuff right out from under our noses in California!”

“Bloody
hell!” She exclaimed, “I thought Security there would attend to that.” As the enormity of the loss sank in, she continued tearfully, “Danny, don’t you see, everything we’ve worked for is going down the drain. First, it was the sinking of the
Ancona
off Sicily while carrying the wrecked engine from the second spaceship. Next, the bulk of our anthropological specimens and the intact engine went down when the
American Traveler
was also scuttled. Then it was the destruction of the hulk in Africa, and now all the progress in unlocking the Martian secrets has been whisked away to God-knows-where. That leaves only what little I have here.”

They were both dejected, and for a time, sat in a depressed silence looking woefully at each other. A lesser person than Diana would have been absolutely prostrate, considering the circumstances. She was reminded of other losses she had endured, such as the two other men in her life before Danny, who were shot down and killed during missions over Germany. She recalled the day when a Nazi V-2 missile made a direct hit on the house next to hers, killing her dearest friends. She had survived the grief of those losses, and even the physical injuries stemming from a bomb blast that, but for a fluke, would have killed her. As with her fellow Britons, her appreciable strengths had seen her through. At that moment she took heart, and smiling at Dan, wiped the tears away.

“Do you realize that this may, in fact, be our last opportunity to be together for some time?” Trying to make light of the situation, she remarked with a laugh, “Visiting at Federal prisons is very restricted, I hear.” Since there was no response, she reached over and, gently lifting his chin, said, “Stiff upper lip, Danny darling.” Then she added with a smile, “On a lighter note, it’s now my turn. I'm asking the gentleman to dinner. What do you say?”

That evening
, at a restaurant on Rush Street, Dan remained inconsolable. This persisted through dessert, despite Diana’s affectionate attention and more than the usual amount of scotch. During the floorshow for which that district was famous, he hardly watched at first. Then a lovely exotic dancer, colorfully but scantily dressed, came on- stage just in front of their table, and began a sensuous number. To the rhythmic beat of what was meant to mimic jungle music, the writhing motions of her body soon led her to remove her sequined top.

Even Diana was impressed by the sight of the woman's ample breasts, gently swaying to the music. So close was their table to the dancer, who was obviously seeking Dan’s approval, she could see the bluish veins just under her white skin surrounding the pasties she was wearing. If this doesn’t get his attention, Diana thought, nothing will. Few men could fail to respond to such a display, and it was with some relief that she saw that he wasn’t an exception.

With drink in hand, he first looked lovingly at Diana. “To you, Di, the woman I’ll always really want.” Then he raised the glass to the dancer, in another toast.

Just then, as if on cue, smiling suggestively at him, the dancer dropped the one remaining item covering her. Slowly turning away from them, she moved her hips provocatively, just as the music ended. Diana watched Dan with longing as he joined in the applause. She realized then what they both needed. It would be therapeutic, and it had been too long.

After paying the tab, and helping her on with her coat, he took her hand. “Where to now, sweetheart? It’s so cold out, we need somewhere warm and cozy.”

“I know just the place,” she replied, “There’s a fireplace in my bedroom.”

After waiting curbside too long in the icy wind, they finally got a taxi, which took them to her apartment on the South Side. During the ride, they snuggled together, ostensibly for warmth, but the kisses he gave told her he was recovering. It was obvious that he had thoughts other than the outside temperature on his mind. But then, so did she.

On entering her flat, they couldn’t wait, feverishly tearing off each other’s clothing on the way to the bedroom, while kissing one another passionately in the process. Gently pushing him down on the bed, she rolled over on top of him, and began to kiss him on the neck and chest. As he writhed in pleasure under the touch of her lips and caresses, he reached over to turn off the bedside lamp, thinking she’d prefer a dimly lit room.

Restraining his arm, she whispered huskily, “No, Danny darling, please don’t cut the light.” Then, rolling over next to him, she said, “Look at me. Do you see any of those blue veins?”

He carefully examined the flawless white skin of her breasts, gently running his fingers over the velvety surface. As the thrill of his caress began to cause her to move in deepening passion, he said, “I see a delicate tracery of blue veins there, Di, but what I love is the pink, the color for girls.”

In the warmth of her bed, they made love more than a couple of times that night, sleeping intermittently in each other’s arms as if they would never be together in that way again. Recalling how cruel fate could be, she clung to him even more tightly, as if to keep from losing him.

The next morning, after bidding him a fond farewell at the airport,
she returned to her work. She knew that a new form of radioisotope dating would be necessary to establish the age of her Martian fossil. Carbon dating, which would have been applicable had the bones originated on earth, would not serve, because of the lack of Martian atmospheric data, and the relatively rapid decay rate of Carbon-14. Even if it were practicable, it would be good only for the late Pleistocene and next, our own Epoch, the Holocene.

*    *    *
                                                                                                                  

Evgeny Z
hukov, a decorated WWII fighter pilot, and a Major in the GRU, the Soviet military intelligence organization, thought he would hate his new assignment. It meant giving up his cozy house in suburban Georgetown and the comfortable cocktail circuit that came with his position as military attaché at the Soviet Embassy in Washington D.C. The Cold War had frozen him out of the camaraderie he had formed with his opposites at the Pentagon, but not the social life he had come to enjoy.

Now
he was in Chicago, like the Soviet capital, in its country’s heartland, in the wintertime nearly as freezing as Moscow. He shivered to think of the snowdrifts and the arctic wind. But orders were orders, and there he was, his office a corner of the floor occupied by the Consul General on fashionable North Michigan Avenue, in the same block where he had been given a furnished apartment.

Stocky, with Slavic good looks, he found the social life surprisingly interesting. The women
, especially, reminded him of Kiev, his home, with their honest, open faces and attitudes, not at all like the cosmopolitans with their strivings endemic to the Capital, where people gathered from every nation to seek favors from the Federal Government.

T
here in Chicago he recognized the power in the Midwest that gave America such strength. It was power that came from the production of steel and machinery, consumer goods and foodstuffs that could be seen everywhere in such abundance and variety. It was not something ordained by a dictator at the expense of the people by diverting it to the spending programs of the military, or to their own bank accounts.

I
t was true that a similarly disproportionate share of the American national income went for what was known as defense. He chuckled at the usage of that term, easily translated as aggression, if one were on the receiving end or paranoid enough. He had started out that way. It was part of his training, but his perceptions were changing. Chicago was helping in that, furthered by his contact with its university on the South Side. He had been stationed in the Middle East for a time, and had fallen in love with the antiquities there, some of which were featured at the U. of C.’s Oriental Institute Museum.

On weekends
, when the weather permitted, he spent a few hours piloting the aircraft of a flying club he had joined. But how he missed the high performance of the little Bell Airacobra he had flown in the war! The Soviet spy’s request to purchase a surplus American fighter, preferably a late-model P-51 Mustang was finally authorized, if only to help keep the skill level of the pilots among them up to par. While most Air Force combat planes that couldn’t be easily flown back across the Atlantic had been scrapped in Europe, many that saw no combat could be bought as surplus in the U.S. And some USSR-bound Lend-Lease aircraft were still available at certain bases along the route used to ferry them via Alaska to Siberia. A few Bell P-63 fighters, King Cobras, the big brother of the P-39 that he had flown in what they called the Great Patriotic War, were still to be found stored where they were when victory over the Nazis was achieved in Europe.