“Professor Thatcher is in the garden,” the maid told Bourne and Abbey when they arrived at his home outside Bedford, New York. “He said to show you out there when you arrived.”
She led them through a dimly lit Cape Cod–style house, with dark wood floors and antique furniture filling rooms that were decorated with heavy Victorian wallpaper. There were hardcover books everywhere, on shelves, on tables, and balanced precariously in piles on the floor. Most were decades old, and all appeared to be nonfiction. Copies of at least a dozen different daily newspapers, from the New York Times to the Chicago Tribune to the Washington Sentinel, were archived in yellowing stacks. There were photos on the walls of Thatcher with five decades of print and broadcast journalists like David Brinkley, Helen Thomas, and Mike Royko. Jason didn’t see any electronic devices in the house, not a computer or phone, not even a television.
“Walden’s sort of a Luddite,” Abbey commented with a smile.
They headed outside into the gardens. It was seven o’clock, almost sunset, and long shadows stretched across the green grass. The trees and neat square hedges made for a kind of maze through the acreage. The house itself was on a small country lane, lined with stone walls, not far from the Cross River Reservoir.
“Just follow the smell of pipe tobacco,” the maid told them.
The garden sprawled across several acres, with dead ends that went nowhere and ended in Grecian-style sculptures. The grass was wet under their feet. They did smell tobacco nearby, but it wasn’t enough to guide them to Walden Thatcher. After getting lost for almost fifteen minutes among the hedges, Abbey finally called out loudly to her old professor, and a hoarse but cheerful voice called back and led them to where he was.
They found him sitting in a small white gazebo, shadowed by a large oak tree, with a gurgling moat running completely around it and sculpted cherubs spitting fountains of water at each other. A footbridge led across the creek to the steps. There were several other chairs inside the gazebo. Bourne and Abbey joined the professor, but before they could sit down, he sprang to his feet with considerable energy and embraced Abbey in a warm hug.
Abbey was about to introduce Jason when he interrupted her.
“Alan Longworth,” Bourne said, plucking out a name he’d spotted in one of Peter Chancellor’s books. He extended a hand, which the professor shook. “I’m a friend of Abbey’s, and I help her with research from time to time.”
“A pleasure, Mr. Longworth,” Thatcher said, his voice scratchy in the cool evening air. “If you’re a friend of Abbey’s, then you’re also a friend of mine. She’s one of my very favorite people.”
They all sat down in the gazebo. Thatcher was in his seventies, and he looked as if he hadn’t left his university life behind him, wearing a tweed sport coat, tan pleated slacks, and burgundy penny loafers. He was a small, skinny man, but spry when he moved, despite his age. He had wiry gray hair that looked as if it had been blown back in a windstorm, a thin pale mouth, and deeply lined skin. Reading glasses dangled on a chain around his neck, and he had intense, dark eyes that didn’t appear to miss much. Although he was focused on Abbey, he kept glancing over at Bourne with an appraising gaze that suggested he didn’t trust the cover identity that Jason had given him.
“How long has it been, Abbey?” Thatcher asked. “Two years?”
“More like four, I think. It was the last of your alumni parties.”
“Oh, yes, I need to get another gathering scheduled. People keep asking about it. However, these days, I don’t worry much about seeing anyone else. It’s easier just to get lost in my books. And in the newspapers, of course. I’m becoming a bit agoraphobic, but I find I can keep up to date without setting foot outside the gardens.”
“If you’re up-to-date,” Abbey said, “then you probably know—”
Her voice trailed off, and Thatcher gave her a sharp look. “About this nonsense regarding you? Of course. Naturally, I didn’t believe a word of it when I read it. It’s hard to imagine anyone would.”
“I appreciate that, Walden.”
“However, what I believe or don’t believe isn’t worth a hill of beans, is it?” the professor went on. “I can’t change anything, not at my age, which I’m sure you know. So the question is, why are you here?”
Bourne suspected that Thatcher was being modest about his influence. According to Abbey, he’d taught some of the biggest names in media, and he could probably reach any of them in moments by picking up the phone. It was also obvious to Bourne that, old or not, retired or not, Thatcher hadn’t lost a step. His intelligence seemed as sharp as ever.
Abbey leaned forward, studying her professor in the shadows of the gazebo. “Have you heard about a group that calls itself the Pyramid?”
Thatcher didn’t answer immediately. He sat back in the chair and tapped a finger thoughtfully on his lips. “An upside-down pyramid?” he said eventually. “Perhaps with an eye in the center?”
“You’ve seen it!” Abbey exclaimed. “You know about it.”
“I’ve heard rumors about the group, yes. Of course, you know as well as anyone the significance of the upside-down pyramid, Abbey. It’s the most fundamental principle in all of journalism. The key facts of a story go at the top, the least important toward the bottom. That’s the message, isn’t it? Get back to facts. Fight against the plague of misinformation. That seems to be the driving philosophy behind this group. If it exists at all, that is. If it’s not just one more online conspiracy.”
“You don’t seem to think so,” Bourne said.
Thatcher’s sharp eyes focused on him again. “You’re right, Mr. Longworth. I don’t think it’s a conspiracy. The Pyramid exists. I’ve talked to enough people who think so that I’m convinced of it, as well.”
“Who have you talked to?” Abbey asked.
“You know me. Just about everyone. Here I am in my garden, so what is there to do but talk? Fortunately, my name carries enough weight that people still take my calls. Columnists. Reporters. News anchors. Bureaucrats. They speak of the Pyramid in hushed tones. They’re afraid.”
“Of what?” Bourne asked.
“Of the things that happened to Abbey happening to them,” Thatcher replied. “Of careers being ruined. Reputations destroyed. Marriages broken up, prison terms for newly exposed crimes, take your pick. Most people have secrets they’d rather not come into the public eye. So they remain silent.”
“I had no secrets,” Abbey replied. “What they did to me was a lie.”
“Well, do you think that matters to them? When your cause is just, you can justify any sacrifice. You are their sacrifice, Abbey. Anyone who gets in the way of the higher order must be neutralized. Even the innocent.”
“Do you know how it started?” Bourne asked.
“With good intentions, like most things of this nature,” Thatcher replied. “Most journalists I talk to have been horrified by the events of the past few years. Not just the politics of the country, but of course, that’s part of it. They look at social media and see a sewer of lies and errors being amplified to the detriment of society. They see no unity of purpose anymore, no agreement on fundamental principles and facts. They perceive a threat to our way of life—even an existential crisis for the earth itself—as a real, tangible prospect. In the face of that, what do you do? Do you stay unbiased? Or do you figure you need to put a thumb on the scale? If a house is burning down in front of you, do you write a story about it, or do you go running for a bucket of water? I’m not saying the choice is easy or clear, but that’s the choice.”
Abbey frowned. “And that’s the Pyramid?”
“No, no, I’m merely saying that’s the climate in which the Pyramid came to be. Don’t you see? If you’re literally trying to save the world, what options are off the table? I’m saying that something like the Pyramid was probably inevitable. Powerful people have always taken it upon themselves to do what they think is right.”
“What powerful people?” Bourne asked. “Who’s behind it?”
“Their names? I have no idea. As I say, most people don’t talk about it openly. It’s in the shadows. Partly because of fear and partly because they have a certain amount of sympathy with the goals of the Pyramid. So they turn a blind eye to some of its methods.”
“Varak,” Bourne said. “Do you know that name?”
“Of course.”
“We hear he’s the driving force behind it. Genesis of the Pyramid.”
Thatcher stroked his chin as he stared at Bourne. Then he turned his attention back to Abbey. “Mr. Longworth here seems like more than a friend and a researcher. Perhaps you’d like to tell me who he really is.”
“I’d like to, Walden,” Abbey replied. “I would, really. But I can’t. It’s not safe. Not for him, not for you.”
“I see. Well, Mr. Longworth, whoever you are, I hope you will be careful with this young woman. She’s very important to me. I don’t want to see anything bad happen to her, any more than has already happened.”
“She’s very important to me, too,” Jason replied.
“Good. All right, yes, I’ve heard what you’ve heard. Varak is the man behind the Pyramid. But I’m not sure what good it does to know that. The two of you aren’t going to take down someone like him.”
“Who else is part of it?” Bourne asked. “Varak has the money, but he needs more than that.”
“I told you. I don’t know.”
Bourne shook his head. “I think you’re holding back, Professor. You know more than you’re telling us. Is it out of some kind of loyalty to your former students? Or are you afraid, too?”
Thatcher shrugged. “At my age, I have very little to fear.”
“Then tell us.”
Abbey leaned forward in her chair and put a hand on the old man’s knee. “Walden, please. We need your help.”
Thatcher exhaled a long, reluctant sigh. “It’s not so much what I know. I only have suspicions. There are people who normally take my calls, but don’t anymore. Or who feign ignorance about things they can’t possibly be ignorant of.”
“Like Darrell Forster?” Bourne suggested.
The old man’s eyebrow arched. “You think Darrell is involved?”
“I do. He chairs the Varak Institute, after all. Plus, I have other reasons to believe he’s part of the Pyramid.”
Thatcher nodded. “Darrell is a brilliant journalist, one of my best students ever. But he was always arrogant. The danger for the brightest student in class is assuming you know better than everyone else. Darrell had a way of letting success and power go to his head. So you could be right about him.”
“Is there anyone else?” Bourne demanded.
The professor hesitated, saying nothing. Darkness stretched over the garden and the gazebo. Jason knew there was more, and so did Abbey.
“Walden, who else?” she asked. “Give us the names. If you know about Darrell, you must suspect others.”
“I do, but you may not want to hear it.”
Abbey cocked her head. “Why not?”
“Because in a world like this, you can’t even trust the people you respect the most,” Thatcher replied.
“Who?” Abbey repeated.
“Another of my former students is one of Darrell’s closest friends,” Thatcher told her. “They go way back. Darrell helped launch his career, and they’ve been allies ever since. If Darrell is part of the Pyramid, then it’s inconceivable to me that he’s not involved, too. But I also know that this man has been instrumental in your career. In fact, I was the one who introduced him to you.”
Abbey closed her eyes in the dense shadows. “Tom. Tom Blomberg.”
“I’m afraid so. And if it’s true, you know what that means.”
She nodded. “Tom’s the one who destroyed me.”