The Cassandra Project (19 page)

Milt Weinstein was known in the trade as a fixer. He didn’t like the connotation, because to him it sounded as if he fixed horse races and baseball games, but in truth he had almost no interest in either of them. What he fixed were political problems—leaks, indiscreet statements, bimbo eruptions (odd how quickly that became an accepted political term), and the like.

He wasn’t thrilled with the thought of going to Los Angeles to speak with a ninetysomething astronaut who hadn’t said anything that could embarrass his employer. In fact, he had no idea what kind of answer he was trying to elicit from Amos Bartlett. For all he knew, he’d be trying to have a conversation with a drooling, incontinent old man who barely remembered his name, let alone his Moon flight.

But he’d been ordered to go by Ray Chambers—and Chambers was close to the president, so here he sat on a commercial airliner, in economy class yet, reading some news magazine that was two weeks behind where he was and wondering how long it had been since they had stopped selling booze in those cute little bottles.

Finally, he landed. As he picked up his suitcase, he automatically looked around for someone in a chauffeur’s uniform holding up a sign with his name on it, and then remembered that, of course, there wouldn’t be one, not when he was traveling incognito. He then spent a couple of minutes wondering why the hell a man who was unknown to 99.99 percent of the public had to travel incognito in the first place.

He walked out of the building, waited patiently in line for a cab, and gave it the name of his hotel. When it arrived, he gave the driver an extra twenty to stay put for a few minutes. Then he went to the front desk, got his key, and tipped a bellhop to take the suitcase up to his room while he went back out and climbed into the cab again.

Then it was off to the military hospital, a dull, rectangular, unimaginative brown building. The cab pulled up to the front door, let him off, and sped away while he walked through the glass doors that opened automatically when they sensed his presence.

He stopped at the front desk and got the name and room number of the general who was in charge of the facility, and was then given an escort to his office. The sign on the door told one and all that this was the office of Major General Samuel H. Glover. The young sergeant who had accompanied him knocked on the door, waited for a gruff “Come!” from the other side, then opened it and stepped aside as Weinstein entered.

The general looked at him with a total lack of interest.

“Yes?” he said.

“General, my name is Milton Weinstein. I believe I’m expected?” Glover frowned at him. “Is there something wrong with you?” “I’m here to speak with one of your patients. I’m just checking in to announce my presence and make sure there won’t be any hassles.” “Which patient?”

“Amos Bartlett,” said Weinstein.

The frown deepened. “Press?”

Weinstein shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

“Then what’s your business with him?”

“Actually, I work for your boss.”

“General Landis?”

“
His
boss,” said Weinstein with a smile. He pulled his White House pass out of his wallet and handed it to Glover.

“Are we to assist you in any way?”

“No. I just want to make sure I won’t be stopped or have to go through a mile of red tape.” “All right,” said Glover. “I’ll have the young man who brought you here escort you to Bartlett’s room. But first, you will stop by this room”—he scribbled down a room number on a piece of paper, then handed it over—“and dictate and sign a statement that you have been sent here by the president of the United States. If you are telling the truth, no one else will ever see the statement or know of your visit unless you choose to make it public.” Another frown. “But if you’re lying, or here under false pretenses, I can promise you a long, not very enjoyable stay in another government facility not too far from here—Terminal Island.” “Understood,” said Weinstein.

He turned to the door, prepared to open it, only to find his sergeant standing there. He escorted him down the corridor to the office indicated on the paper. When they arrived, Weinstein dictated his statement to a young officer at a computer, waited for it to be printed out, and signed it.

“All right,” he said, turning to the sergeant. “I’d like to see Bartlett now.” “This way, sir,” said the sergeant.

“Can you tell me anything about him?” asked Weinstein, as they walked to an elevator.

“I know he flew one of the Apollo missions, sir, one of the ones before we landed on the Moon.” The sergeant punched the button for the elevator. It arrived, and they got in and started up. “Anything else?” asked Weinstein.

The sergeant shrugged. “Just that he was moved here to keep him away from the press.” “Why?”

“I really don’t know, sir. He seems a nice old guy, but of course I’ve only seen him a couple of times, once when he arrived and once when I took him to one of the labs for some tests.” “Tests for what?”

“You’ll have to ask the medical staff, sir.”

The doors opened, and they stepped out onto the fourth floor.

“When I’m done, do I just walk back to the elevators and go down to the main floor and out the front door?” asked Weinstein, who was sure it couldn’t be that easy.

“In essence, sir,” said the sergeant. “I’ll be standing outside Bartlett’s room while you speak to him. The door will be closed, so neither I nor anyone else can overhear you. When you’re through, just open the door, I’ll escort you back down, you’ll sign out, and I’ll arrange transportation for you.” “That’s very thoughtful of you.”

The sergeant finally smiled. “Your tax dollars at work, sir.” They walked down the sterile, unadorned corridor, took a left, and stopped in front of a door.

“This is it?” said Weinstein.

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay. I’ll take it from here.” Weinstein opened the door and stepped into the room. A very old man, who looked even older than his ninety-two years, sat propped up in his bed, watching a televised baseball game on the TV screen that hung on the far wall. He noticed Weinstein but didn’t turn off the set or even lower the sound.

“Good afternoon, Amos,” began Weinstein.

“Shut up!” said the old man. “There’s two out and two men in scoring position.” Weinstein stopped speaking and looked around the room. The old man had a pile of books on his nightstand, and didn’t seem to be attached to any monitoring devices. The place smelled of chemicals, cleansing fluids mostly, but then so did the rest of the hospital. There was a phone on the table, hidden behind the books, and a pair of glasses folded atop the stack of books. A window overlooked the parking lot.

“Damn!” muttered the man as the batter struck out, and the game ended. “Okay,” he said, turning to Weinstein. “You’re not a doctor or an orderly, so what do you want?” “My name is Milt Weinstein, and I’m here to talk to you.” “You can tell Bucky Blackstone to go to hell!” snapped Bartlett. “I’m not saying anything.” “I don’t work for Blackstone,” answered Weinstein.

“Then what are you doing here?” asked Bartlett suspiciously.

“Like I said, I want to talk to you.”

“Well,
I
don’t want to talk to
you
.” Bartlett folded his shriveled arms across his chest.

“Maybe if I tell you on whose behalf I’m speaking, you might change your mind.” “Maybe it’ll snow in August, too,” said Bartlett.

Weinstein pulled a chair up next to the bed and sat down. “Okay, Mr. Bartlett. You don’t want me here. I’d rather be three dozen other places. But this is my job, and I’m not leaving until I get what I want. How long it takes is up to you.” Bartlett glared at him. “All right,” he said at last. “Who are you working for?” “Ever hear of George Cunningham?”

Bartlett muttered an obscenity. “I
knew
it!”

“Well, at least you realize he’s got the clout and the money to keep me here until I get what I came for.” Weinstein smiled.

“Why can’t everyone leave me alone?”

“Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll see to it,” said Weinstein.

“You’re just a flunky. You can’t make promises for him.” “You’ve only got one thing anyone wants, Mr. Bartlett. Once you tell it to me, the president’s got no further interest in bothering you, and he can see to it that no one else does either.” “How?” demanded Bartlett. “This place is like a prison, and if I go back to the home, everyone will find me there.” “I’m sure we can arrange the equivalent of the witness protection program,” said Weinstein. “New name, new state, all expenses paid for.” “They’d find me.”

“They wouldn’t even be looking for you. Besides, how old are you?” “You’re saying I’ll die before they find me.” Bartlett shrugged. “Probably you’re right.” “Then shall we talk?” said Weinstein, pulling out a video device the size of a matchbook. “Don’t mind this. It’s just to make sure I don’t misquote you.” “First things first.
Prove
you work for Cunningham.” Weinstein pulled out his ID card and handed it over.

“I could get fifty of these printed up in an hour’s time,” said Bartlett. “You must be able to get your boss on your cell phone. I want to see his face when he’s answering you.” “I can’t bother him in the White House just to prove I work for him,” said Weinstein. “The man’s got a country to run. This is small potatoes.” Bartlett stared at him for so long Weinstein was afraid he was going comatose. Finally, he nodded. “All right. Ask your questions.” “Thank you.” Weinstein leaned forward. “You were on one of the Moon missions prior to Apollo XI, right?” Bartlett nodded. “Yeah. I was the command module pilot for Aaron Walker. But you know that.” “Tell me about the mission.”

Bartlett closed his eyes, sighed, then opened them. “Everything seemed in order. We took off on schedule, jettisoned our boosters on schedule, reached the Moon on schedule, orbited it the first time on schedule. It was a picture-perfect mission up to that point.” “Then what?”

“Then we orbited it again.”

“And?”

“And again.”

Weinstein grimaced. “What aren’t you telling me, Mr. Bartlett?” “Every word I’ve told you is God’s own truth!” he snapped.

“I never said it wasn’t,” replied Weinstein. “I asked what you weren’t telling me.” “I want a cigarette first.”

Weinstein actually laughed. “In a hospital? Lots of luck.” “I want one!”

“I’m sure you do.”

“And I’m not saying another word until you get me one.” “Then we’re just going to stare at each other until one of us falls asleep,” said Weinstein.

Bartlett stared at him. “Damn. You’re smarter than
she
was.” “Who are you talking about?”

“Blackstone’s spy.” A pause. “Cunningham has more competent people than Blackstone does.” “Thank you for the compliment.”

“I didn’t say
good
people, I said
competent
,” replied Bartlett.

“I thank you anyway. Six of one—”

Bartlett stared at him. “You have qualities. I’ll bet you’re great at rigging elections.” “Never tried,” said Weinstein. “Can we get back to the subject?” “Blackstone’s lady?”

“The Moon flight.”

“Aaron and Lenny are both dead, you know,” said Bartlett. “I’m all that’s left.” “I know.”

“And look at me.”

“You’re doing okay, Amos.”

“Sure I am.”

“So what really happened up there?”

His eyes brightened. “What the hell. Maybe someone ought to know the truth while I can still tell it.” “Makes sense to me,” said Weinstein encouragingly.

“All right,” said Bartlett. “You want to know what happened? Blackstone already knows, but he can’t prove it.” Weinstein wanted to ask if he meant that there was a landing, but he knew better than to say it first. Sooner or later, someone might claim that he was leading a senile witness. “So tell me, Mr. Bartlett.” “Call me Amos.”

“All right, Amos.”

“They took the lander down to the surface on the far side,” said Bartlett.

Weinstein checked his video device to make sure it was working. “You want to say that once more, Amos?” “They landed. I was left alone in the ship. I orbited eleven times, then they hooked up with me again. Never said a word about what they were doing down there. I knew it was hush-hush, and, of course, it had to have been planned all along. I never asked them why or what they had done. I couldn’t be sure the ship was secure. When we got back, got away from everything, I asked, but they’d been sworn to silence, same as I had. After that, I never saw them again.” “Did they bring anything back up to the ship?” asked Weinstein. “Rocks, pebbles, anything at all?” Bartlett shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“How could you not know?” persisted Weinstein. “You weren’t at the controls twenty-four hours a day. You had access to the rest of the ship.” “Oh, they didn’t bring anything aboard the ship,” said Bartlett. “But I don’t know what they might have left in the lander. I never got into it during the flight, and I never saw it again after we came home.” “That’s very interesting, Amos.”

“You think so?”

“Don’t you?”

Bartlett shook his head. “I find it scary, not interesting. What the hell did they do that half a century later nobody knows anything about it?” “That’s what your president wants to find out.”

“He’s the president, isn’t he?” said Bartlett. “Why doesn’t he just order NASA to turn everything over to him? I mean, you can’t keep secrets from your president when he wants them, can you?”
Only if his name is Ford, Reagan, Bush, Clinton, Bush 2, Obama, or Cunningham,
thought Weinstein wryly. Then he remembered that he’d only gotten half his answers.

“I have another question or two, Amos.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

Bartlett nodded. “You want to ask about the earlier flight, Myshko’s, don’t you?” “Yes, I do,” said Weinstein.

“I don’t know. They took off, did some orbits, came back, and there was never any indication anything unusual had happened. I didn’t realize there’d been anything out of the way about the Myshko flight until they started talking about it a couple of weeks ago. If they actually went down, too, they sure as hell didn’t tell any of us.” “Who told you not to say anything?”

“An admiral. Castleman, his name was. I wasn’t to say anything to anyone. Not even let anybody know there was anything to tell. After that, no one ever mentioned the landings again. We had debriefings, and it was as if everything had proceeded according to the officially announced plans. I was told that everything that happened was top secret, and that if I divulged anything I’d be locked away for the rest of my life . . . but that’s just what’s happened to me now. And I’m tired of having this hang over my head.” A rueful smile crossed the old man’s face. “They won’t believe you either, you know.” “One man will,” said Weinstein, getting to his feet and walking toward the door.