Chapter Thirty-Two

 

 

SITTING ONCE AGAIN in the CIA’s cleanest of clean rooms, Burnett said, “So, we’re on schedule to launch at the end of this month?”

“If everything stays on schedule, yes we are,” Dr. Hans Westin said. “Of course, ‘if’ is a dangerous word. One might say, for example, ‘If it had not been for that iceberg, the Titanic would have had an uneventful maiden voyage’.”

“Don’t play word games with me, Doctor. “Will you be ready to go on the thirty-first, or not?”

The man had no understanding of the complexities of science. None. With his fingers mentally crossed, Destin said, “Yes. Yes—we shall be ready.”

“And you haven’t scheduled it for Halloween out of some fanciful belief in tradition—or even superstition?”

“Not at all. As I’ve told you, the mathematical calculations show that the energy waves we need to tap into will be very strong on that date. It may even be, centuries ago, that the math was the basis for the superstition.”

“I don’t follow you.” Burnett, clearly, was not a man who enjoyed being made to feel in any way mentally inadequate.

“What I mean is,” Destin said hurriedly, “is that those who first designated that date as All Hallows Eve may have been unconsciously influenced by the same cosmic forces that we will ourselves take advantage of.”

“You’re saying that people unconsciously realized it was an evil day and built the Halloween myth around it?”

“Scientists don’t deal in words like evil, Mister Burnett, but I’d say you have grasped the concept. The celebration, if that is the proper word, began with the ancient Druids, who made blood sacrifices to placate their gods that time of year. The ancient Romans, who may or may not have known of the Druidic myths, called the occasion Parentalia, the feast of the dead—although they celebrated it in mid-winter. Quite independently, the Celts began celebrating the feast of Samhain, during which they—”

“All right, Doctor. This lecture is fascinating, but I’d say you’ve made your point. You didn’t just pick Halloween for a giggle.”

“I have never been known to do anything for a ‘giggle,’ Mister Burnett,” Westin said stiffly.

“No, I suppose not. So, you’re sure that launching the project on Halloween gives us the best chance of success.”

“That is correct. There is another time, at the end of April, which is also propitious, although not quite as—”

“We are not waiting until Walpurgis Night to make this happen, Doctor Westin. Allowed to continue their present rate of advance, the Caliphate might well be in control of the whole Middle East by then, and at that point even an army of demons might not be enough to roll them back.”

“And, in such an instance, I expect the amount of bloodshed involved would increase exponentially.”

“That too, or course. All right, Doctor, I’m counting on you. We launch on Halloween—come Hell or high water.”

Westin wasn’t sure whether a smile was appropriate. Burnett might be indulging in some mild humor, but if so it would be the first that the scientist had ever seen from him. No, an expression of amusement was too risky.

Maintaining his usual serious demeanor, Westin said “I shall try my very best to have all in readiness by that date.”

The look Burnett gave him was enough to freeze Westin’s blood, and the scientist was cold blooded to begin with.

“No, Doctor Westin—you will not ‘try.’ You will ‘do.’ There are interlopers who are nibbling like rats at the edges of Project H. Like rats, they will be exterminated—but they may be more of them to come. Even the President has heard a whisper, although he will soon be assured that his suspicions are groundless.”

“I understand that, but there are factors beyond our—”

“If this project does not launch on the thirty-first, Doctor, then it may ultimately fail. Our country cannot afford failure, and I will not permit it.”

Destin was offering reassurances as Burnett reached inside his suit jacket. He came out with a spiral notebook, which he knew would amuse Clyde Neale if he saw it. But, as Neale had once said, some information could not be entrusted to the digital world. Besides, he thought the notebook would make an effective prop in the drama that was about to begin.

He opened the notebook and began to flip through its pages with exaggerated slowness. Westin had stopped talking now and was watching with puzzlement and some degree of apprehension. He soon learned that the apprehension was justified.

“Ah, here it is.” Burnett stopped turning pages. “You’re married for twenty-seven years, wife’s name Louise, two children—Martin, 24, residing in St. Louis, and Martha, 19, currently a sophomore at MIT. Is that information accurate? No need to answer, Doctor—I already know that it is.”

“Why—why are you telling…”

“Quiet—I’m not finished. You were married once before, I believe. Wife Mary Ann, deceased. Two adult children—Sandra and Mary Beth, both married. Sandra has given you three grandchildren and Mary Beth only one, possibly because she’s miscarried twice since little Carl was born. I’ve seen their pictures. Cute kids—if you like that sort of thing.”

“Mister Burnett, please.”

“Be patient, I’m almost finished. You have two brothers, I see. Richard lives in Boston with a wife and your two adorable nieces. David’s in Atlanta, twice divorced, no issue from either marriage.”

Burnett flipped the notebook closed and put it away, but Destin didn’t speak. He just sat with an expression of quiet horror on his thin face.

“I can see you grasp the subtext of my little monologue, Doctor. I knew you were a smart man. I’ve just named fourteen people, toward whom even a cold fish like yourself probably has some degree of affection. Is that correct?”

Westin just nodded.

“Very well, then. If Project H does not launch on schedule on the thirty-first—or if it should launch, but fail to produce the desired results, then all fourteen of those people will die—some of them quite horribly. I think I’ll save the most gruesome deaths for the grandchildren. That makes a certain amount of sense, don’t you agree?”

Doctor Hans Westin was an articulate man, and a brilliant one, but for the first time in his adult life he was speechless, struck dumb by the insanity of what he had just heard. And he believed it. This madman was capable of doing, or rather ordering done, exactly what he had threatened.

“It may occur to you,” Burnett went on, “once you’ve calmed down a bit, to contact your relatives and warn them. To suggest that they take immediate and long vacations, perhaps. If you attempt something so foolish, I’ll know. And then I’ll kill two of the people on that list, just to show you the folly of trying to fuck with me.” Burnett leaned forward and spoke very deliberately. “No one fucks with me, Doctor. No one. And most especially not you.”

Burnett stood up. “I’d say ‘Have a nice day,’ but even I’m not that hypocritical. Let me wish you a productive day, instead—followed by many others over the next three weeks.”

After Burnett left, Doctor Hans Westin sat there, in the cleanest of clean rooms, staring at the door as if hoping Burnett would reappear and say, “Just kidding.” The warden gets that call from the governor, and the execution—of an innocent man, of course—is stopped at the last minute. That kind of thing is always happening in the movies, but Westin suspected it was rare in real life. There would be no phone calls for him. After a while he stopped wasting time with foolish fantasies, turned on his computer, and went back to work.