Sabotage (4 page)

“Mr. Hardy, I'm offering you a job.”

Austin tried not to look too questioning, nor did he allow himself any premature eagerness. “I'm assuming this isn't research assistance.”

“Right.”

The biplane came to a stop. Clare's presence seemed to swell and occupy the entire room.

“I know how peculiar it must sound, but there is little concrete I can tell you,” the professor added. “It would be unwise, even dangerous for me to share much without a pledge of commitment.”

“To what?”

Clare seemed to talk over the question. “Regrettably, secrecy only makes your decision harder. Forgive me if it's all too abstract, but you'll have to determine … you'll face a hazy crossroad, and have to decide, from limited knowledge, whether the work interests you. Decline, and I'll ask for your discretion, but no more. Accept, and I will tell you everything, knowing your agreement entails nothing short of full dedication.”

“How abstract are we talking? What
can
you tell me?”

“You'd learn national defense secrets as you cultivate relationships with military leaders as an engineer. Your travel schedule would have you so busy, you'd likely need passport inserts within two years. You'd associate with a preexisting organization but operate as an independent entity. And you'd need more than a sharp mind. An athletic body would serve you well.”

“For a minute there, I thought you were talking politics.”

“Mr. Hardy, I'd like to elevate you, not sentence you.”

Austin let out an earnest laugh, then tilted his head sideways. “You mentioned defense secrets.”

“With secondary, albeit profound, political consequences.”

“Any more you can say about that?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“Why me? Don't you have any better qualified candidates than a first-year doctoral student?”

“Don't think you're the only mental acrobat I have my eyes on.” Austin bit his tongue, humbled. “But my hopes are high for you. I saw an exceptional student—outspoken, bright—and wondered if he's for hire. Don't get any ideas because I brought up defense secrets. This isn't your childhood fantasy. The work is scientific. But it has benefits. A salary, for one. You'd start out around three hundred thousand, with room to grow.”

For a student, it was unheard of. Still, Austin was surprised and a tad annoyed the professor would presume to propose something so important and explain so little.

“Mind if I ask more questions?” he asked.

“Go ahead.”

“How long would my employment last?”

“You would sign on for four years. With luck, you'd want to stay indefinitely.”

“How many have you recruited?”

“Personally, a few dozen. But there are hundreds in the workforce.”

“All university students?”

“You'd be among the first your age.”

“Could I tell people about this? Friends, family?”

“You could tell them you were a private military consultant, no more.”

“A private military consultant.”

Clare fogged his glasses with a warm breath and polished the lenses, his expression unreadable as stone. “Someone who works with heads of the Defense Department as a creative builder.”

“A builder. Of what?” He saw from Clare's face that the question would go unanswered. He tried a new tack. “What use could a first-year grad student offer a general?”

“You wouldn't work for any general. You'd work for me. People would listen. People in high places.”

“Would the job be dangerous?”

“For you, no. You'd be perfectly safe.”

Austin felt a twinge of discomfort. Apart from the obvious omissions, there was something the professor wasn't sharing—something pivotal.

“You've been doing more than teaching,” he said. “Sounds like Stanford has been kept in the dark about something.”

“It's no secret to my closest faculty friends. But their knowledge is limited. Not even my daughter knows everything I do.”

“You have a daughter?”

The news certainly didn't break the day's pattern of revelations.

“Due to the nature of my work the last few years, not all those in my life have remained safe. My daughter is an example. I've kept her well protected.”

“I had no idea.”

“Then I've done well. When she was young, I had to watch her closely. She was an old soul, that much was always obvious—but I knew she couldn't grasp the extent of her vulnerability. Now that she's grown, she understands the need to keep to herself.” His eyes misted with pride. “Talk about killer smarts. She's just like her mother. Plays piano like her, too.” His grin began to vanish. “If only they'd known each other. They're similar in almost every way.”

“I didn't realize you had married.”

Clare nodded toward a small picture frame on his desk. He was about twenty-five years younger, sporting a bomber jacket and standing next to a dark-haired lady on a cobbled street. They were surrounded by colored lights. The woman peeked through a feathered mask encrusted with rhinestones in the shape of a fleur-de-lis. Her neck was strung with Mardi Gras beads, and her legs were wrapped around the younger Malcolm's. She was beaming, her golden suntan setting the picture aglow. Austin blinked twice, taken by the photo. “She's drop-dead gorgeous.”

“Angelica Francesca Freire,” said Clare. “That was at Rio Carnival.”

“How did you meet?” Austin asked, not really expecting the professor to answer.

But Clare surprised him. “In Brazil. Soon after I formally left ClareCraft for Stanford, I started getting speaking invitations to universities around the world. Met Angelica at the Federal University of Rio de Janeiro. She taught math there. Funny, I kept finding reasons to fly back. We married in eighty-three.”

“Does she still teach?”

He knew he was pushing his luck with curiosity.

“The next year, she grew fatally ill after giving birth.”

Austin felt stricken for having asked him to talk about it. “I'm sorry.”

“I didn't invite you here to commiserate. You've just heard an unusual proposal, and I'd like to know what's going through your mind.”

Austin allowed himself time to ponder. “You've given me a lot to think about,” he said. “And I'm honored by your trust in me. You have to understand, I struggle with secrecy. The idea of keeping things from loved ones could never be comfortable for me.”

“Understandable.”

“On the other hand, from what little I know of it, the job seems tailor-made to my interests. I'd like time to decide.”

“No need for promises tonight. How's one week?”

Austin didn't expect much sleep the next seven nights.

“One week,” he said. “Okay.”

Clare stood. He rested a reassuring hand on Austin's shoulder before gesturing toward the door. “Don't kill yourself over this. If you have more questions, ask. I'll be in my office from eight a.m. till nine p.m. all week.”

“You practically live here.”

“And you're always welcome to visit.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

As he headed out, Clare's voice caught him in the hallway. He glanced back. The inventor's clouded gaze seemed to have given way to a skittish excitement. Austin returned to Clare's office and reconnoitered the room once more, which for all its model planes and zeppelins looked like a chamber in Santa's factory.

“One more thing,” Clare said.

“Yes?”

“A fun little perk. Those who work for me learn to fly. Private pilot lessons with my compliments.”

“Who's the instructor?”

“You're looking at him.”

 

THREE

Man's natural response to the unknown was fear, Clare mused. Of course Austin wouldn't jump at the offer.

The discussion had gone well enough. Though his student's acceptance wasn't mission critical, he had sensed something exceptional and wanted to get to it early.

After Austin left, Clare closed the door and reclined in his desk chair.

Organizing his mental to-do list, he realized he'd reached a rare lull in activity. It wouldn't be long before the action picked up again—twenty-four hours, tops—but he welcomed the break. He had only to wait.

And drink. Within hours, he expected cause to celebrate.

He took a champagne bottle out of a small refrigerator near his desk, popped the cork, and poured a glass. The flute paused at his chin.

He flipped open his cell phone and speed-dialed a number.

“How's everything?” he asked. “Good … Yes, they always do that, standard protocol.… Don't worry, they'll have it under control.… Ha! Of course not. That will probably come as a shock.… You know I'd be there myself, if I could.… Take pictures, if you can, square on the belly of the beast.… Agreed. We'll talk soon. Safe journey.”

Clare snapped his phone shut and placed it at the edge of his desk.

The crystal felt cool on his lips, the champagne thrilling his palette with a refreshing kick. It was the glory of achieving yet another milestone. One empty glass became a second, then a third.

He idled away time by skimming headlines on his laptop. Finding little of interest, he shut it down and placed the computer in his padded briefcase. He flipped on the news from a miniature television he often played on mute. If only the media knew, he thought, presses would fly hot.

His attention drifted to a different photograph on his desk. He gazed at the image for a few minutes in quiet reminiscence, seeing his happy younger self, trying to remember the carefree days before his present responsibilities. It had been a less complicated time, and he had been a simpler man. He sighed as he looked through the mask at Angelica, and for a moment he could hear her; she spoke gently, and as the alcohol saturated his veins, she began to caress him. Memories flashed like images from an old film projector. He wanted to see her again, to run his hands through her hair, to feel those endless legs wrapped around him. He pinched his forearm for entertaining the impossible.

A rumble in his stomach escalated to a growl. He drank the remainder of his champagne, save one glass, which he vowed to finish after getting food.

He placed his briefcase against his desk and walked into the darkened corridor, locking the door behind him. He stopped. Had he heard something? A fleeting sound—or was it the champagne buzz? He turned a corner and descended the stairs, his thoughts now on the choice of cuisine.

In his office, his mobile phone began to vibrate, its screen displaying an incoming call from a restricted number. The phone jittered on his desk, moving millimeters at a time, until slipping off and dropping onto the floor. For seconds it lay still. Then it shook once more.

Outside, Clare breathed in the cool air. Cloudless skies revealed clusters of stars winking down on the university's quad. A black sedan was parked to the north. A fountain sprang to his right, splashing over a mound of rocks and creating a rhythm of water breaking against water. A family of raccoons stole into the bushes, staring at him. Crossing the street, he strode toward the iconic cloistered quadrangle. Something shifted in the darkness. A shadow flitted.

Sharp-edged pain shot through his skull. His teeth clamped to compensate. Scores of lights flared in his head, blinding at first, revolving in strange constellations and whisking away his sense of up and down. His strength waned, and his knees gave. Night closed in on him like a shroud. The stars faded. He fell limp, grappling with an enveloping black void.

 

FOUR

She was a fortress on water.

Her smokestacks seemed to tilt with the passing clouds as the man gazed up from the dock. The largest ship in its fleet, the
Pearl Enchantress
housed a small city. She was over one thousand feet long and nineteen stories high, dwarfing other ships in the Port of Miami.

Garbed in a Cuban-style guayabera, former Air Force combat weatherman Jacob Rove climbed the gangway toward the cruise liner. He had traveled aboard many vessels during his service, never for leisure.

He reached a line of passengers waiting to board. A toddler peered at him from behind his mother's leg, smiling. Children's reactions to his appearance had always puzzled him; they were more often fascinated than afraid. He looked rigid as brickwork and older than his forty-eight years, with wide shoulders and a stocky frame comparable to a middleweight boxer's. The tattoo on his left deltoid was a crude, grinning toucan. Shadows clung to the grooves of a craggy face, one bearing traces of cynicism and fatigue. Missions overseas had led to physical erosion, just as training good men—and watching many die—had left emotional damage difficult to quantify. Telltale scars around his collarbone attested to his acquaintance with physical pain.

Some perceived a facade of cold granite when they looked at him. Others saw through this mask into a kind soul. Though he spoke little, there was a friendly humor in his voice when he did, one that offset the gravity of his expression. His father had come from a Scottish family of devout Catholics, and his mother from a Polish family of Orthodox Jews. They had eloped to Nevada, where his dad had joined the Sparks Police Department as a patrolman. Wounded by family hostility between faiths, they had reared Jacob without religion. Before his fourteenth birthday, Jake's father had been killed in a gang shootout and left in an icy lake. In his sleep, Jake would see the gleam of a police badge sinking in the deep; two arms would reach from a cold murk, and the sight of a white, bloated face would haunt him. Fearful their family had been targeted, his mother had insisted they move in with her sister in Houston. At fifteen, Jake had been forced to confront his terror of swimming when asked to help at his uncle's dive shop. He had spent hours filling tanks, disinfecting regulators, selling gear, feeding fish in the aquarium, and restocking inventory. He and his uncle would dive every day after school until Jake was ready to assist teaching scuba classes at sixteen.