Walter Fennman awoke drenched in sweat. Fumbling for the bottle of antacid
tablets on his nightstand he chewed down two of the cherry flavored pills,
then two more. His stomach was churning again, this time almost to the point
of puking. For the last year he suffered from a singular recurring nightmare,---
Decoviak! The man searched him out and was stealing his will away, turning
him into a mindless robot. It was always the same,--- Decoviak's face emerging
from the mist of a fog shrouded city street, then the slow agonizing torture
of knowing his mind was fading. Shaken, Fennman sat up, dropping his feet
to the floor. The reassuring texture of the carpet underfoot helped dispel
the nightmare. The lights were dimmed, but never out. He hadn't slept in a
darkened room since the dreams began.
Fennman's fears were compounded by the fact no one uncovered a single lead
to the three men's whereabouts. It left him afraid of every new face he encountered;
especially, new faces who turned up at the Institute. He insisted on being
briefed about the hiring of each new employee, even grounds keepers he might
never come in contact with. All employees who lived outside the confines of
the Institute were now scrutinized by camera as they passed through the gauntlet
of new gates, and every employee, regardless of status was scanned by retinal
viewer before allowed to enter any building in the complex.
As much as possible, all outside contact was limited to camera or phone.
That went for security staff as well, none were exposed to random scrutiny,---
no one walked the perimeter, the fence was protected by sensors with multiple
redundancy. He took every precaution and still the nightmare invaded his sleep.
Latham, Decoviak and Ludlow. The three men haunted him, but he knew precisely
where the danger lay;--- Decoviak. The other two were medical wonders, possibly
the most valuable discoveries since the world began and they remained hidden
by Decoviak's mind blanking power. If Decoviak were dead,--- out of the picture,---
the other two would be easy to find. The number of agents involved practically
assured their capture.
Unable to sleep, Fennman arose and wandered into the apartment's small
kitchen. There he set up the coffee maker, then decided on a shower. It
was almost five A.M. anyway. In two hours he was scheduled for a phone conference
with John Eritine, his head of security. Like all of Fennman's agents, Eritine
went through frequent and rigorous testing in search of the slightest hint
he might have been 'washed' or compromised. Yesterday was Eritine's monthly
ordeal. Today John would be hard pressed to stay focused or on track and tomorrow,
too, for that matter. The drugs took at least forty-eight hours to dissipate.
The testing ruined Eritine's effectiveness for three days a month, but it
was the only safe way.
Fennman now had thirty agents in the field and as each returned from assignment
he or she was subjected to the same tests as Eritine and the other employees
at the Institute. The Carson Center in Arlington was specifically designed
for this purpose. So far, nothing,--- not a blip,--- not a single instance
of outside tampering to his people; and, although his employees minds appeared
untouched Fennman stilled worried. He couldn't demand the same tests of
the CIA or the FBI and who knew how far Decoviak penetrated those two organizations.
Of course the FBI was pretty much out of the loop anyway. All they were
willing to do was pass on surveillance information on possible terrorists,---
a lot of help that was.
He originally painted Decoviak as a terrorist, but that no longer shook
trees at the FBI. The fiasco in Arizona caused so much grief the Bureau was
no longer amenable to his requests for manpower. Not even Senator Davis,
using all his sway on the appropriations committee could bring them back
on line. Once burned, twice shy. About the only contact left between the
Institute and Bureau was with a liaison team, Turner and Harris, and Fennman
couldn't be sure those two hadn't all ready been compromised. He hated having
those men coming to the Institute. He never spoke to them personally, but
the very idea of two untested agents snooping around the Institute set his
nerves on edge.
Outside of his own people, Fennman hadn't met face to face with anyone
in six months and he intended to keep it like that. Still, he wished to God
there was some way he could force testing on both the Agency and the Bureau.
He would feel a lot safer.
John Eritine had a difficult time keeping track of what Fennman was talking
about. The testing and the drugs left him feeling like shit. It was getting
so he dreaded the thought of that fucking monthly examination and yet he couldn't
do anything about it, not even complain to Fennman. The man was crazy, a
regular loony-tune, hiding out in his little apartment like some latter day
Howard Hughes and all because he was scared of one man. Shit, no one had
heard of Decoviak in years, not since Oklahoma City. Ludlow walked out of
the county jail, all the Mexican bank accounts got cleaned out and the three
men vanished into thin air. Hell, the they could be anywhere; Europe,
the Far East, Australia. As sure as water runs down hill, those men
went to Earth and it appeared as though they found somewhere damn remote to
do it.
Why Fennman was so fucking paranoid about three guys on the run made no
sense to Eritine. Scared shitless his old agents were compromised, Fennman
got rid of every one. Some he fired, others he moved to jobs where they no
longer had contact with the Institute, and those few who knew too much, the
ones he couldn't simply ditch, Fennman eliminated. Eritine himself took out
Katz. One could almost say doing Katz was how John qualified as the new head
of security. Of course, that was before all this testing bullshit started.
Even zapped as he was, Eritine caught at least part of Fennman's tirade.
He was demanding the FBI liaison team be kept away from the Institute.
"Meet them somewhere else, hire a hotel room or office space. I don't want
them here anymore.”
The man is getting nuttier everyday, Eritine thought, but he was careful
not to voice his opinion. Crazy or not, Fennman was one dangerous Motherfucker.
* * * * * * *
The five drove to Mirida, caught the first available flight to Mexico City
and there waited several hours for the non-stop to New York City. They didn't
tarry in the Big Apple, instead they rented a large, comfortable SUV from
Hertz and headed for Virginia. Since Ron Harris' assignment to the liaison
team, Ivan had been checking him daily, trying desperately to get a lead
on Fennman. In fact Harris' present assignment was Ivan's doing. The trip
to Washington gave Ivan a handle on such things as active duty rosters and
he immediately had Harris and Turner transferred to the liaison team.
One thing Ivan learned was Fennman was currently in Virginia,--- Alexandria
to be exact. Fennman's representative inadvertently exposed
the fact, but where in Alexandria was anyone's guess. Ivan carefully seeded
Ron's mind to look for clues to Fennman's whereabouts, especially on those
occasions when he and Turner visited the Institute. Unhappily, nothing leading
directly to Fennman turned up. Erik Lance, Fennman's front man at the Institute,
hovered over the two FBI men from the time they arrived until he escorted
them back through the gate. Ron had little chance to snoop.
The men rented the only furnished place they could find, a two-bedroom
townhouse in an upper class neighborhood. The rooms were tiny and Chet was
completely stunned at the cost.
“We could live at Casa Del Sol for a year for what this cracker box costs
a month!” he exclaimed.
Jason laughed, “Remember the old real estate cliché; Location, location,
location? Well, if the Casa were sitting on this spot, we might be able
to afford Maria's cottage, but I wouldn't lay odds on it.”
They settled in the best they could. Ivan looked tired and they were all
hungry. Carry out seemed the best option at the moment. With a KFC
and a Chinese place within a mile of the townhouse, cooking could be held
to a minimum. The market purchases were confined to drinks and the kind of
stuff that goes from the freezer to the microwave. That night they dined from
a double bucket of chicken, several quarts of mashed potatoes with gravy,
hot rolls and coleslaw and while it was a long way from the spicier flavors
they were used to, no one complained.
The next morning Ivan had another bout of pain,--- not quite as severe
as the one in Mexico, but bad enough. It was time to see a doctor. It took
awhile finding a physician with an appointment opening. Ivan wasn't particular,
any doctor who had a hospital affiliation and who could write a prescription
would do. Dr. Cole proved to be more than adequate. Ivan searched
the man's memories, finding which pain drugs were the most effective and
which caused the least disorientation. Cole wrote out the prescriptions and
forgot all about Ivan. He wouldn't remember even seeing this odd patient,
unless Ivan, needing the good doctor's aid for some reason, spoke a certain
phrase to him. Ivan now had his doctor, one who would, if need be, make house
calls; although, why he would be willing to do such a thing would always
remain a mystery to Doctor Cole.
From the moment they arrived in Virginia, Ivan spent nearly all his time
reading those people who knew Fennman personally. With a little nudge he
was able to get those acquaintances to think about Fennman. Senator Davis,
for one was more than a little irked at the man. At recent appropriations
hearings, Fennman failed to appear, instead he sent a flunky to face the
committee. Davis was barely able to get the Institute's funding passed.
Fennman certainly had a lot of gall, he thought, leaving him out on a limb
like that.
Ivan left Davis and moved on. Checking on Harris he discovered the up coming
liaison meeting was switched from the Institute to an office in downtown Washington.
“It's weird, Guys,” Ivan said, “I've checked everyone I read at Davis'
fund raiser last September. At least twenty people there knew Fennman personally,
yet no one has seen him in months.”
“Maybe he's not here after all.” Chet commented.
“Oh, he's still here!” Jason replied, “Remember what Ron saw?” Jason was
talking about the slight slip Erik Lance made the last time Ron was in his
office. One of the medical staff rushed in and handed a paper to Lance saying
that Doctor Fennman wanted these results as soon as possible. Lance arose,
walked to the fax machine, inserted the paper and punched in a number. From
where Ron sat, he couldn't see the entire LED readout, but he did see the
prefix and that prefix was local.
“I agree.” Ivan said, ”He's here and Erik Lance knows where. What I have
to do is read Lance. I've nudged Ron and several others to make inquiries
on the man but he seems to be a cipher. Ron couldn't even turn up a phone
number or an address on the guy. Maybe he lives at the Institute. I think
we're in luck though. Ron just got notice his next meeting with Lance will
be held in Washington. At last,--- a chance to get a handle on Fennman. It's
about time, wouldn't you say?”
It was on Thursday, ten days later, when the meeting took place. The sky
was overcast and rain threatened. Chet pulled the SUV into the office building
parking lot on 22nd St. while they waited for Ron and Turner to arrive for
their two-thirty appointment with Lance. Ivan checked on Harris and saw
the agents were only minutes away.
“Okay, Sven and I are going to head for the lobby. I want to be on the
5th floor, right near that office when Ron arrives; maybe I can catch sight
of Lance from the hallway. I would rather he not notice me at all, but if
I can't get a look at him that way, I'll barge into the office 'by mistake'.”
“Why worry about it,” Chet asked, “You can just blank his mind, make
him forget he ever saw you.”
“Yeah, I could, but think about Ann Arbor and Doc Conner. I made him forgetful,
too, and Fennman's team of shrinks restored his memory in a week. I'd rather
do this so Lance has nothing to remember, just in case.”
Ivan missed seeing Lance from the hallway. Harris and Turner were met by
a secretary who ushered the two into an inner office. Ivan was frustrated.
Through Ron's eyes he again viewed Erik Lance's bland countenance. The man
was colorless, ash blond hair and eyebrows. Lashes so white they seemed
nonexistent and eyes the color of over bleached denim. As if this wasn't
enough, the fellow's skin carried the unhealthy pallor of a dungeon dweller.
The guy's teeth had more color than his face,--- they appeared almost yellow.
Lance was a chain smoker and he had a Brooklyn accent that grated on Ivan's
nerves even though it came filtered through Ron's consciousness.
The meeting hadn't even started when Ivan's plan went awry. A pain so horrible
he thought he had been stabbed, shot through his back. It put an end
to any thought of barging onto Lance's office. He collapsed in agony, unable
to do anything but writhe about on the floor. Sven, realizing what happened,
quickly scooped Ivan up and carried him back to the elevator. The pain just
wouldn't quit, it was excruciating, never in his life had he experienced
anything like it. Sven was talking to him, but he couldn't make out what
he was saying,--- the pain,--- the pain,--- it overrode everything, even
his ESP. Ivan clenched his jaw trying to keep from crying out,--- it seemed
like he couldn't breath. A pressure in his head made his eyes feel like they
were going to explode. Every point of light had a halo around and then mercifully
the elevator faded to gray.
Ivan awoke to find Doctor Cole hovering over him. An IV slowly dripped
and he realized he was back in the townhouse. Mentally, he reached for the
Bart, Chet, Jason and Sven. They were all here, sitting in the next room,
fretting. Chet was saying they should've started the transfusion and worried
about the consequences later. Bart and Sven agreed, but Jason insisted on
waiting until Ivan could decide.
<< Guess I screwed up, huh, Chet? >>
“He's awake!” Chet cried, leaping up and heading for the bedroom. The others
followed and crowded into the small room.
“How are you feeling?” Bart asked, worry painted plainly on his face, “Any
more pain?”
“No, but my head is buzzing a bit,--- narcotics?”
“Yeah, morphine. Look, Ivan, Doctor Cole say's the cancer is spreading
like wildfire. Just by pressing on your abdomen he can now feel lumps. You've
got to have the transfusion! “
“Doctor, how long have I got? I want the truth.”
“A few weeks, maybe less. Without a biopsy, I can't determine which type
of cancer you have, but it is obviously very fast moving. There's been a
major enlargement to your liver since I checked you two weeks ago.”
<< Well, that cooks our goose, doesn't it? >> Ivan projected
to the others. << Fennman keeps on truckin' and we have to go back into
hiding! >>
Ivan read Doctor Cole and saw there was little more he could do at present,
so he made a few changes in the doctor's memory. Cole packed his bag, rolled
down his sleeves and put his jacket on. It wasn't appendicitis after all,
merely a case of acute indigestion. The fellow should have just gone to the
emergency room.
“Thank you, Doctor. I really appreciate you coming to my aid like this.”
Ivan saw Cole planned on taking his wife out for a surprise dinner that
evening. There was still time, it was early yet, only around five P.M.
Cole made the emergency call directly from his office. Flashing that information
to Bart, he watched as Bart pulled out his wallet and extracted some bills.
“Yes, thank you, Doctor,” Bart added, “We don't know what we would have
done without you. I'll be around tomorrow to pay the bill, but in the mean
time, please accept this token of our appreciation,--- do something nice for
yourself,--- perhaps take your wife out to dinner.” He said as he slipped
the bills into the breast pocket of the doctor's coat.
Cole smiled. He wasn't in the habit of taking tips, but the young man was
so sincere he couldn't refuse. It wasn't until the drive home he pulled
out the money and was shocked to find four crisp, one hundred dollar bills.
He shook his head. Now, THAT was an expensive case of indigestion! Maybe
I should do house calls more often, he thought.
“Well, it looks like we won't be making people forget about us. It was
a good plan, Jason and if it wasn't for this damn cancer, we'd probably
have Fennman located by now.”
“You keep thinking the transfusion will destroy your ESP, but that's only
an assumption.” Bart said. ”Look,--- in the shape you're in, there's
nothing more you can do here. Let's do the transfusion and see what happens.
If you loose it, we'll just keep on moving. There's one thing for sure,---
we'll all outlive Fennman, all we have to do is stay out of sight.”
“There is one other option.” Jason commented, “Since we don't have time
to search for Fennman, Ivan might be able to flush him out.”
“How?” they all wanted to know.
“Remember what you told us about making people remorseful over past sins?”
“Sure, with most folks it's fairly simple. A little nudge starts them thinking
about their misdeeds, then a little extra push and it starts cascading.
Suddenly, they feel the need to confess to anyone who will listen. Just
like Juan Sanchez.”
“Exactly. Now what if you did the same thing to all the people you've read
here in Washington,--- not just Senator Davis and that bunch, but everyone
in the government that you've read.”
“But most of those people have nothing to do with Fennman!” Ivan protested.
“Some do. Anyway, for this to work, we can't simply pick out known Fennman
cohorts. There are hundreds more within the Beltway supporting Fennman whether
they know it or not. What we need is a regular flood of people coming forward,---
enough to destabilize the Institute. Remember, in order for Fennman to stay
in business, his backers are calling in favors all the time. Someone votes
'yes' on an Institute funding proposal and in turn gets a vote for his own
personal pork barrel. It's the way Washington works. What we need to
do is throw a monkey wrench into those works.”
Ivan blanched, “Do you know what that would do to the country? Good Lord,
I've read half of congress and most of the senate, to say nothing of all
those agency people. There are no squeaky clean politicians here, all have
been stained in one way or another. It just goes with being in politics.
Hell, there are enough skeletons in the halls of congress to sink the whole
ship of state. Jason,--- it might bring down the government.”
“I have a bit more faith in the American people than that.” Jason replied,
“Yeah, there'll be a shake up, but believe me, the union will hold together.
Besides, rooting some crooks out of Washington can't be all bad.”
“But it's not just crooks who'll suffer! I can't make anyone selectively
remorseful, once started, the cascade reaches every part of the personality,---
every blessed thing will come out,--- infidelities,--- cribbing on some test
in college,--- little peccadilloes that have nothing to do with a man or
woman's ability or fitness for a job. Shit, the media would have a field day.”
“Well, it's the only alternative I can come up with. It's pretty obvious
you don't have the time or stamina for anything else. It's either this, or
take the transfusion and hope you're wrong about what it may do to you.”