Love Story: In The Web of Life (7 page)

The class did not know that the professor was
doing both legitimate academic research and searching for
candidates for a classified government sponsored research program
at SRI, the Stanford Research Institute. Soon, Steve was
interviewed by a researcher at SRI and asked whether he would like
a part-time job. Since Steve was working his way through school, he
accepted the offer. He filled out an employment form that he
thought required an unusual amount of detail on his personal
history and family background. A few weeks later he was called to a
SRI office where he signed security pledge forms and was briefed on
a highly classified psychic spy program under development for the
CIA. He worked part-time until he graduated in architecture, after
which he went to work for one of the CIA's classified contractors,
known as Power Industry Consultants, or PIC.

He worked on the CIA–sponsored program for
twenty years, spending hours each day perceiving assigned cold-war
psychic targets, the location and activity of people of interest,
or the nature of activities in buildings or factories in the Soviet
Union. In the book, he was only able to give two examples of his
work, which had somehow escaped the classification process, to
describe the process.

I closed the book as I heard the jet's flaps go
down in preparation for landing.

Dore closed her laptop and said, "Amazing stuff
isn't it. The psychic spy program went on for twenty years, and
nobody ever heard of it. The contractor Steve worked for had annual
incremental funding from the CIA, which meant every year someone
had to justify the program's effectiveness for it to continue. Our
company funds startups. We positively don't continue ventures that
aren't panning out. Someone high in the Government must have valued
the program."

I nodded and looked out the window as we
descended to the Palo Alto airport, trying not to reveal my
skepticism about this whole turn of events in my life. I was still
mulling over what I had just read.

I saw another black Towne Car waiting by the
hangar.

Colson Associates was in a modern but
unassuming building, on a slight rise, in an office park surrounded
by trees that were leaving-out with spring foliage. One was in
bloom with bright pink flowers. The building was finished in brown
stained wood and had many windows.

An attractive receptionist sitting at a modern
glass-topped table with a laptop looked up and greeted Dore. "Dr.
Colson said to send you right in."

We walked into a glass enclosed room
overlooking a large space, which looked like the waiting rooms in
the private clubs that many airlines had at airports where for an
annual fee, or a first-class ticket, you could wait in luxury.
Groups of overstuffed maroon chairs sat among carrels, and small
tables filled the room. People sat around the room working on their
laptops, or clustered in quiet conversation, or talking on
cellphones in semi-enclosed soundproofed cubicles. The color scheme
of the room was maroon and grey, obviously the product of an
interior design studio. There didn't seem to be any offices. It was
a quiet but somehow busy place.

As we entered the glass room, a man of about
fifty years old, medium height, slightly balding, salt and pepper
black hair, sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs, tapped a
button on his laptop. He closed the lid, looked up, and walked over
to us.

Dore said, "David Willard meet Vince Colson."
Vince Colson had a very relaxed demeanor, in a blue and white
stripped button-down shirt with no tie, khaki pants, and black,
leather-topped running shoes. As we shook hands, I felt as though I
was going through a security scanner at the airport. With one
piercing look he knew everything about me. I had been 'made'
again.

As we sat down at a glass topped table, Dore
asked, "Latte, coffee anyone?"

"Latte," I said, as Vince nodded
"yes."

Dore texted a message, smiled and said, "We
have a 'den mother' who operates the coffee bar at the end of the
building for everyone. As you can see, we don't have offices here.
Everyone, including Vince and I, spends our days in what we call
the 'uncommon area'."

"Is this the Foundation or the VC building?" I
asked.

"Both," said Vince, "Mostly financial activity
takes place here. The accountants keep track of which hat we are
wearing by how we log into our laptops. You saw me switch my laptop
identity as you came in. Right now, Dore and I are in the
Foundation."

"Could you tell me a little about the
Foundation?" I asked.

"I have enjoyed some business success because
of what I, in my younger years, called 'intuition.' It was a skill
I sharpened for evaluating ventures and people. With experience, I
learned that somehow I could read a lot about people by simply
concentrating on them and getting a feeling. I also seemed to be
able to get a feeling about the probable future of a venture
someone was pitching. As I investigated, I found there were many
practitioners in other fields that used 'intuition,' such as a
medical doctor who could mentally scan a person's body and sense
pathologies. It was kind of my private secret for years.

"Then, about a decade ago, a fellow appeared at
my office, saying he was a former member of a highly classified CIA
psychic spy program that had been declassified. He claimed he had
recently been making a killing in the silver futures market: a fact
I later verified from other sources. I learned about the Remote
Sensing CIA spy program and how the ex-spies were offering
consulting services in many areas. I have used him over time to
assess people and evaluate ventures. I use him to produce 'data
points' that I combine with other information: providing me with
another dot when I am trying to connect the dots, so to
speak.

"I created the Foundation to further explore
the general idea of remote sensing and other forms of unexplainable
communication or foreknowledge of events. These ideas did not fit
any known scientific paradigm. Most scientists would debunk the
idea of any kind of ESP phenomena having any validity.

I have been funding academic research to get us
a reputable scientific paradigm. The Foundation now has the pieces
of one.

"One of our consultants, Steve Manteo, the
former participant of the CIA program I referred to, lives in the
Sierra Mountains north of Sacramento. Last winter, he was driving
home when he came upon a Rocky Butte Sheriff's Department search
and rescue operation command post in a roadside diner, coordinating
the search for a lost girl. He offered his help to find the girl,
and the Sheriff just blew him off. He was about to leave, back in
his car, when suddenly he sensed exactly where the girl was, that
she was very cold, and crying. He took a copy of his book and a
folder of credentials he had in the car, documenting his psychic
spy CIA experience, including the picture of him and the President,
and the letter of his citation for a Congressional Medal, signed by
the Secretary of Defense, and showed it to the Sheriff."

Dore interrupted, “That is the book I gave you
on the plane."

"Steve insisted in placing an 'X' on the map
the Sheriff had spread out on a table and announcing that the 'X'
marked the girl's location. The Sheriff got mad and said that the
girl couldn't be in that area; they were concentrating the search
where they were sure she had gone missing. The Sheriff ordered
Steve off the premises and threatened him with arrest.

"Later that night, they found the girl frozen
to death in the place identified by Steve on the map."

The 'den mother' appeared with the lattes, a
bowl of fruit, and a bowl of healthy snack bars. Dore introduced
her as though she was part of the family. "David, this is Maureen;
she runs this place. David will be here working with us
sometimes."

Maureen was fiftyish, grey-haired, a little
frumpy, wearing a navy blue polo shirt, starched khaki pants, and a
glowing smile. I felt like a teenager being served dinner by my
mother.

Maureen smiled and said, "Pleased to meet you,
David. Feel free to visit our coffee bar any time, and let me know
if you need anything, anytime. That includes office supplies,
secretarial support, travel arrangements, or someone to listen to
you, or to bounce an idea off."

"Thank you, Maureen," I said as her smile
beamed.

Dore added, "We try to keep an informal
atmosphere around here and it is Maureen's job to inspire
informality and enforce the policy."

Vince sipped his drink and continued, "Our
corporate counsel has filed a civil suit on behalf of the parents
of the girl against Rocky Butte County. We are seeking damages for
negligence, for not using all resources available to prevent the
death of the girl. Our counsel suggested we get Bracken and Stevens
to handle the case. That is where you come in."

Dore nodded to Vince and said, "Here is the
file on the suit. It is yours from here on out.

"We have a starting point for you. We have
sponsored mathematical research by a LA mathematician, Candice
Montgomery, for a couple of years. She has come up with a theory
that can explain how ESP works. Now, we are underwriting a movie
she has written, which can explain that theory to people with only
eight–grade mathematics training."

"I know her," I answered, "She delivers such
interesting and entertaining lectures that students such as history
majors who are not registered for her classes, sometimes crowd into
her classrooms to hear some of her most famous lectures on subjects
such as Statistics. I first heard of her at a professional seminar
where she had the audience laughing uproariously while she
explained Statistical Optics, not normally a very funny
subject."

"I'll call her to introduce you and tell her to
contact you," said Dore.

"You should go up to visit Steve, get to know
him, and visit the area where the girl was lost. Dore, can you let
Steve know about that also?" Vince added. "Dore will be your
contact at Colson." Vince got up and shook my hand. "I am delighted
that you and Bracken and Stevens are handling this for
us."

Dore led the way out of the conference room,
down the stairs, to one of the maroon chairs in the large room. She
took a seat and motioned for me to sit down. Possibly responding to
my puzzled expression, she said, "We all work here in the den." She
paused, texted something on her Blackberry, opened her laptop,
pressed a key, and paused. "Your return transportation will be here
in a few minutes. Are you comfortable with all this?"

"Yes, but I must say I have only started on
this learning curve."

"Good," she replied. "We wanted a clean slate.
But, I must warn you, the first time you discuss this subject with
some scientists, you will run into what I call 'The Bigot's
Protocol.' They will get incensed, maybe mad, turning red, and
lecturing you on how any idea of psychic phenomena is pure
gullibility. It is really a hot button with many scientists and
other people. Don't be discouraged: they're wrong and we are right.
It is like telling a southern tent-revival preacher there is no
such thing as Salvation.

Now if you will excuse me, I am working for the
company." She tapped on her laptop.

I thought briefly about telling her about Uriel
but thought better of it. As I opened my book I saw Vince walk into
the other end of the room, sit down, and open his
laptop.

In a few minutes, Dore walked me out to a
waiting Towne car.

****

As I walked back into my office, Zaza said, "I
thought you were going to Palo Alto."

"I did," I replied. "These people are fast
company."

"Is there going to be an address in Palo Alto
where I send flowers to?" Zaza inquired sarcastically.

"No, this is going to be 100%
business."

"Mr. Bracken said to stop in when you got
back." Zaza said. "Shall I check to see whether he is
available?"

"Yes."

"You can go right now," said Zaza after a brief
telephone conversation.

Phil greeted me with a smile, stood up from his
desk, walked to his leather office couch, motioned for me to sit in
an adjacent chair, and said, "Tell me about our new
client."

"They are really fast company and seem to be
able to make fast decisions. They hold meetings that are three and
a half minutes long and make important decisions in a
snap."

Phil smiled and said, "Vince used to be a Navy
jet pilot, the top-gun type. He is trained to quickly assess
things, make decisions, and take action. If someone fires an
antiaircraft missile at you, you don't have time for a staff
meeting; you simple begin evasive maneuvers. If you are coming in
for a landing, all the gauges on the instrument panel suddenly drop
to zero, all the red lights go on, and the flight controls stop
working, you hit the eject button. It pays for a jet pilot to be
decisive.

"If he hadn't liked you or failed to have an
immediate feeling of confidence in you, he would have fired you on
the spot. Congratulations! You have a client."

"Dore seems to be the same. I don't think she
blinked her eyes for the first fifteen minutes of our meeting. I
doubt that I will hear you complaining about an indecisive
client."