19
Charlie’s air taxi had departed Melbourne supposedly for Tampa. But immediately after takeoff it had swung north of Orlando, then descended into the rich horse country of Ocala. They made what the pilot said was an unscheduled landing on a private strip shared by a dozen mansions, all of which had airplane-sized garages fronting the strip. As Charlie descended the air taxi’s stairs, a needle-sized Lear was already powering up. He boarded and the pilot shut the jet’s door, telling Charlie they were headed for New York.
Charlie spent the journey north flattening Gabriella’s letter on the burled-walnut table. The letter said simply, I need you, Charlie. Please come.
He had nothing against a woman who did not mince her words.
The jet landed at Teterboro and Charlie took a taxi into Manhattan. Remy Lacoste phoned as the taxi was crossing the Hudson River. He said in greeting, “Only reasons I’m calling is one, I said I would, and two, I want my money.”
“Are they still on your tail?”
“You’ve brought me some serious heat. I want a lot of money, bro.”
“I’m off the grid myself, Remy. Strang fired me. There isn’t a lot of money to pass on.”
Remy gave that a beat. “So you’re taking on the Combine.”
“First time I heard that name was this morning.”
“You’ll soon be wishing you missed that conversation. I know I do.”
“Give me what you’ve got.”
“I been tracking rumors for years. The Combine is basically your corporate bogeyman. There’s nothing written, and most people who know anything for certain are too scared to talk. What I heard, they were originally founded in the early eighties to counteract the surging might of the Japanese keiretsu, or family of companies. There aren’t any Chinese or Japanese companies in the group. Otherwise it’s pretty much borderless. A majority of the companies might be headquartered in America, but that’s basically just an address. Their loyalty is to money. Their goals are simple in the extreme. Maximize global profit and power. Vanquish all opposition. Anybody who stands in their way gets toasted.”
“Why no Chinese?”
“The Chinese government and companies are so tight they’re basically one and the same. The Combine doesn’t include any company whose interests are tied to a national government. Sometimes they’ve got to take the gloves off and obliterate government opposition.”
“You got anything on the two names I gave you?”
“Typical Combine personnel. Reese Clawson was probably taken straight from university, on account of how her personal records basically vanish at age twenty-one. She might as well have emigrated to Mars. Weldon Hawkins was CIA, then went to work for Raytheon. At age forty-one, he basically vanished too. Must’ve joined Clawson on the red planet.”
“You have an address for the Combine?”
“What, you’re thinking maybe you’ll drop by, see if they’re hiring?”
“And a phone number and website.”
“Man, you are seriously twisted.”
The cab pulled down a leafy side street and halted in front of a red-brick neighborhood church, the address Brett had written on the envelope. Charlie handed the driver a bill, slipped from the cab, and said, “It’d be good to have an idea how many security agents I’m up against.”
“Let me see if I’ve got this straight. You can’t pay what you owe me, you’ve brought me some serious heat, and you want more?”
“If you could track the movements of either Hawkins or Clawson, that might help as well.”
“In your dreams, bro.”
“I appreciate everything you’ve done, Remy.”
“Wait, here’s something on the house. You find the Combine on your tail, you run.”
The church stood between Second and Third Avenues, five blocks from Central Park’s north end. Charlie had left the East Side glitz about ten blocks earlier. The buildings here were modest brownstones, the pedestrians a Manhattan mix of young up-and-comers and Harlem’s more international flavor.
The church was red brick and stone, very much in keeping with the neighborhood—comfortable, a little stodgy, fronted by wide steps and a few stunted trees. As Charlie pushed through the doors, the leather strips swished softly over the stone floor. He had always liked how Catholic churches smelled, the old incense a silent welcome for drifters like him. He scouted the sanctuary but did not see Gabriella. He settled into an empty pew. He did not need to reread the letter. He was as certain he had the right place as he was that she would show.
Ten minutes later, Gabriella emerged from the confessional booth. There was obviously some silent pecking order, because instantly another parishioner rose from a front pew and slipped inside, closing the door behind her. Gabriella wore a shawl of mantilla lace over her hair. Charlie watched her settle into a pew about five up from his own and wondered if this was some genetic oddity, how certain women could take anything, even a strip of coffee-colored lace, and turn it into a fashion statement.
Then the priest’s door opened. A spare man with wispy hair poked his head out. He searched the sanctuary until he found Gabriella. He stared at her so intently, several parishioners turned to follow his gaze.
The priest slipped back into his booth and shut the door. The parishioners kept staring at Gabriella. She remained bowed over her hands, giving no sign she was the least bit aware of the attention. Charlie made no move to join her. She had not looked in his direction, but he was certain she knew he was there.
Ten more minutes passed before Gabriella joined him. Her first words were, “Someday I hope I find a way to say how much it means that you are here.”
Charlie gave her sad countenance a brief examination. “Will you tell me what’s going on?”
“Soon.” Gabriella checked her watch. “We have a few more minutes. Do you mind if we stay here?”
“Not at all.” He motioned toward the confessional. “Something you said sure rattled that priest.”
“I told him what was happening today. I asked him if Galileo sought absolution before he wrote up his discoveries.”
“Is the church threatening you, Gabriella?”
“I hope and pray not.” She shuddered. “Will you tell me what has happened to you since we were last together?”
Charlie recounted the events leading up to his flights north. “Do you know who the Combine is?”
“Not the name. Not even why they are after us.”
“How many are you?”
“Nine, counting you.” She glanced at him, looking anxious now. “You are with us, yes?”
“Our goal seemed so simple initially. We sought to replicate certain experiences in a measurable and clearly defined manner.”
“Religious experiences.”
“That was the problem that started me down this path, Charlie. So many people today feel that religion is an empty word. The question for me was, how could I combine recent scientific developments with this constant human hunger for something beyond the physical.” She cast him a sad smile. “Who would ever have thought we would generate such a huge . . . I’m sorry, I can’t think of the word.”
“Firestorm.”
“Yes. That. We knew there would be opposition, but we expected it from the scientific community. But not this. Never this.” She was silent a moment, then murmured, “The two default structures for mankind’s perception of the world are religion and science. Since the Reformation, these two have grown farther and farther apart. Nowadays, the catchword among most scientists is exclusive. Either you are scientific or you are religious, but you cannot seriously be both. But this is all beginning to change. Prohibiting an appeal to the supernatural, in my opinion, cripples modern science. Quantum physics is entering a phase where these two structures are no longer so clearly divided. To progress, the new operative word must become totality.”
Charlie said, “Okeydokey.”
But Gabriella was too involved in her internal vista to realize she had lost him. “I am a psychologist. My discipline has been under attack since Freud began his studies. The criticism is always the same. How do you quantify unseen experiences so that they can be measured? Did I say that correctly, ‘quantify’?”
“Your English is better than mine.”
“Thank you. Yes. The problem with all nonphysical states is the same. Some psychologists, called behaviorists, have responded by claiming that all human action is based upon external stimuli, and this can be defined and controlled and measured and predicted. I have spent nine years in behaviorism and I know it to be a lie. But their methods are valid. Over time I met others from different disciplines who shared my desire to measure identifiable components of the human psyche.”
Her voice had risen such that glances were cast their way by other parishioners. The priest left the confessional and stared at her once more. Gabriella noticed none of it. Charlie did not mind the attention, or the fact that he did not understand a lot of what she was saying. He was content to sit and draw a fraction closer to this amazing woman.
“We sought one specific issue. One definable experience. Something we could instigate, measure, and set within established parameters.”
“The experience you led me through.”
“I came across research done back in the seventies and eighties. The man, an American, was a radio engineer. He conducted the first-ever experiments using sound to stimulate particular brain-wave patterns. What you experienced, separating human consciousness from the physical body, was for him just a secondary phenomenon. The man has since died, and his work was left unfinished. We decided to apply new developments in quantum mechanics and something called chaos theory to a more highly refined experimental structure.
“That is where Brett came in. He is a biologist specializing in brain chemistry, which means he has also done considerable research into the electro-impulses that create thought, memory, and emotion. Brett helped us re-form the radio engineer’s work around recent discoveries in brain-wave patterns. Our aim was to separate consciousness from the physical form in a controlled environment. If our work proved valid, it would mean redefining the entire structure of scientific thought and the human experience.”
“You’re talking about the soul, aren’t you.”
“Perhaps. Are you religious, Charlie?”
“Not really.”
“Then I urge you to be very careful with names. Too often people use names as a shield. They say the words and pretend that is all they need, as though attaching a label grants them the power of wisdom.” She glanced at her watch. “You must have questions of your own.”
“So many I don’t know where to start.”
Her smile was as sad as her eyes. “Then we have more in common than you think.” She rose to her feet. “We must go, Charlie. It is time.”
They took a taxi to the other end of Central Park. The day was nice and Charlie would have preferred to walk. But Gabriella had emerged from the church wearing the day like a shroud. So Charlie remained silent and followed her lead. He asked, “Do you want to tell me what’s going to happen?”
Her response was another shudder. “Not yet. Would you please just keep me company?”
“Sure. Does that mean we’re not facing any threat here?”
“No physical danger. I’m sorry, Charlie. It is very hard for me to talk about this.”
“It’s no problem.”
“I just need your strength.”
“I’m here for you.” Charlie gave that a beat, then added, “If there’s any chance they’re tracking us, you need to get rid of your phone.”
“All of my team have thrown them away, Charlie. We have been made aware of this risk.”
They did not speak again until they pulled up in front of a hotel. The Ritz-Carlton was too large to be classed as a boutique hotel. But its interior held that intimate feel.
Gabriella released his hand as they slipped from the taxi and entered the hotel. She marched to the reception desk and announced, “My husband checked in earlier. I wonder if he remembered to leave me a key.”
“Your name, ma’am?”
“Gabriella McLaren.”
“May I see some ID?”
“Of course.”
Charlie remained planted by the entrance as Gabriella accepted the plastic key. She politely refused the receptionist’s offer to show her upstairs, then turned to Charlie and said, “Come with me.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Charlie Hazard, willing servant. He followed her to the elevator, where Gabriella pushed the penthouse button. The entire ride, she stared at the elevator doors and panted softly through slightly parted lips.
She let them into a massive suite overlooking Central Park. Charlie gave the rooms a quick sweep, then joined her at the living room windows. The park was laced with springtime green and rimmed by New York bling. “Must be nice.”
“We need to sit here.” She indicated the space between the sofa and the window.
“On the floor?”
“We are safe here.”
“You’ve seen this in one of your . . .”
“I have, yes.” She tucked her skirt in about her knees, reached into her purse, and came out with a palm-sized video camera. “I’m very glad you are here, Charlie. Can you operate this?”
“I need to keep my hands free.”
“I told you. We are in no danger.”
The camera’s operation was clear enough. He looked through the monitor. The camera focused swiftly, the viewfinder crystal clear. He zoomed in on a beautiful woman wearing a grim and tragic mask. He set the camera in his lap. “Can you tell me what’s happening?”
She was silent so long he thought she was not going to respond. Then she said, “Everything is so new. Three weeks ago, we designed a series of trials around the instructions to determine what risk we faced. I discovered something that forced me to realize how much I was willing to ignore, how our safety in the Vero hospital was just a myth.”
Charlie had no idea what she was talking about. But he could hear the strain in her voice, see the fear in her eyes. He disliked his position, behind soft furniture that would offer them no protection from gunfire. He was also unable to see what might come through that door. If he raised his head he’d be instantly silhouetted by the window behind him. It was a sucker’s spot. A beginner’s hideaway.
Gabriella was saying, “Each time I go hunting risk, I am given specific images. Usually this is matched by a snapshot sensation. Sometimes the emotion is clearer than the image. My last trial, the accompanying sensation left me numb. I wish I could be that way now.”
Charlie stopped fidgeting. “What was it that shocked you, Gabriella?”
“You will see soon enough. If I talk about this, I will . . .” Her face went taut as a mask. She bit her lip, struggled, and forced herself to steady. “Right now I want to tell you what happened after. Usually we close a search for risk by asking, ‘Where do we go next?’ This time, instead of finding safety, I found myself looking at another danger. I saw a room as big as a cave. No windows. Four tiers of computer stations rising like an arena. The stations and the people face a wall of huge flat-panel displays. The sensation was of raw power and a frigid coldness.”
“You’re talking about the Combine?”
“I do not need to name this thing to know it is a bringer of death.” She spoke with the steady conviction of a scientist dictating results. Every word carefully spaced. “A woman with white-blonde hair stood on the top tier. She spoke to a slender man, possibly Indian, I’m not certain.”
Charlie knew she described a standard war room. The screens were the war room’s eyes on the world. Incoming data streamed constantly. The analysts were arrayed according to task and seniority. The top tier was reserved for people with the power to send peons like Charlie to their death. “Did you see what was on the screens?”
“You were being hunted by a team of men in blue SWAT suits. I did not see you, but I knew it was you they were after. The men ran across a lawn toward a one-story house. I was so frightened, but I did not understand why.”
A private group able to afford its own intel war room and a mercenary attack force drawn from Delta . . . Gabriella had every right to be scared.
Charlie started to tell her this had already happened when he heard the sound of a plastic key being inserted into the door.
Their location was all wrong. He should never have allowed himself to be trapped back there. Armed with nothing but a camera to record their demise.
Then he heard laughter.
A woman, probably quite young, said, “Oh, cool. A suite. Wow. What a view.”
An older man said, “Yeah, from where I’m standing the view is fabulous.”
“Oh, you.” The young woman’s voice had the hard-edged quality of too much too soon. “Where’s the champagne?”
“Go check in the other room.”
Charlie thought he recognized the man’s voice. The one time he had heard it before had been in a penthouse lab.
The man followed the woman across the carpet, entered the bedroom, and said, “Here, let me open the bottle.”
At the sound of glasses clinking, Gabriella took hold of Charlie’s hand. Her grip was so tight, her entire body trembled with the force she applied to his fingers.
The woman in the other room said, “What’s in the box?”
“Open it and see.”
There was a rustle of paper, then, “Wow. My favorite blue.”
“I know.”
At the sound of a passionate kiss, Gabriella released Charlie’s hand and reached for her purse. “I’m going to end this.”
He was about to reach over and keep her from using what he assumed was a pistol. But her hand emerged holding papers.
“Bring the camera.” Gabriella rose from her crouch, crossed the room, opened the doors, and said, “Hello, Byron.”
The woman jerked out of Byron’s embrace and demanded, “Who are you?”
“I’m his wife.”
The young woman slapped the man cowering in the bed beside her. “You told me you were divorced.”
“He is,” Gabriella said, and dropped the papers in his lap. “Just as soon as he signs both copies.”