Thin Air (29 page)

"What plots? The man wrote about the conceivable existence of flying saucers. He never insisted they were invaders."

Traben stared at him, then relaxed, tamping his pipe.

Hammond said, "I should probably have a talk with Dr. Kurtnauer."

"What for?"

"According to Rinehart, you went out of your way to get Kurtnauer kicked off the project."

Traben looked at him for a long moment, then said, "That's just what I mean. Rinehart is crazy. Dr. Kurtnauer is
working
for Micro-Tech!"

16

Hammond struggled to maintain his composure. "How long has he worked for you?"

"Since 1968." Traben observed Hammond coolly. "What's wrong, Commander? You seem upset."

"Just surprised. Can I see him?"

"Certainly, if you don't mind going to Israel."

Hammond's confusion deepened. "He doesn't work
here
?"

Traben shook his head. "I'm sure Rinehart told you that Kurtnauer went to Israel in the early fifties." Hammond nodded. "Well, at least he's told you one thing that's true. Kurtnauer is an Israeli citizen, highly respected, and at home in their scientific community. He's of great use to us there."

"Doing what?"

"Research."

"What is he working on?"

"Various projects. Classified."

"Kurtnauer is a physicist. Why would he be working for an electronics company?"

"Commander,
I'm
a physicist. And I'm
Chairman of the Board. Sometimes we have to go the way the wind blows."

"I would still like to meet him. Does he ever come to the States?"

Traben hesitated. "Occasionally. In fact, Dr. Kurtnauer should be here in about three weeks for a meeting. It's probably just as well you wait till then. He would be difficult to reach right now. He's on a field trip for us. But if you're anxious, we can try to locate him for you."

Hammond thought about it for a moment, then said, "I'll wait. Does he commute here often?"

"Once or twice a year."

The intercom buzzed and Traben's secretary informed him he had a meeting in five minutes. Hammond rose and said, "I guess that's it. Dir. Traben, thank you very much. I appreciate your time."

Traben escorted him to the door. "You're welcome. And please feel free to give me a call if you need further information."

Traben put out a perfunctory hand and Hammond held on to it longer than he should have, flashing Traben a thin smile that said, "I'm not as dumb as I look." Yet that was exactly how he felt: stupid.

The door closed and Hammond turned in the waiting room. The secretary said, "Mr. Coogan will be right with you, sir."

"Thanks." Hammond headed for the door, intending to do a little exploring on his own, but when he opened it, Coogan was already on his way up the hall.

"So! How'd it go?" he asked.

"Dandy."

"Great. Come oh, I'll take you back to the lobby."

Hammond followed him down another corridor and a flight of stairs, aware they were taking the long way around.

Coogan led Hammond into a huge designing room, long and high and crowded with electronics and technicians in white lab coats. Hammond had no idea what he was looking at, but the miles of electrical wiring and exposed printed circuit boards looked real enough. There were computers everywhere, whirring or blinking away. If it was just a show, it was a damned good one, but Hammond couldn't allow himself to be that paranoid. He noted the international cast: Japanese, Chinese, Germanic types, even a few who were conversing in Russian.

They left through another door.

"Impressive," said Hammond. "What was it? An international prayer meeting?"

Coogan laughed. "Top-secret Navy project. So you can report to your people that MTL is on the job."

"I'm sure you are."

"I hope you enjoyed your visit, Commander. Was Dr. Traben helpful?"

"More than I expected."

"I'll bet you had a slanted view of things before you came in here."

Hammond shot him a glance. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Commander," Coogan said in a hushed tone, "this fellow Rinehart has always been a pain in our ass. He's been trying to sic investigating committees on us for years. He was Traben's partner, but he got drunk with power. Thought he was a scientist himself. Couldn't stand the idea that Traben could do it and he couldn't."
 

"How do you know so much about Traben's past?"

Coogan smiled. "I'm head of security, Hammond."

Hammond nodded. That was all fine, but how did Coogan know that Hammond had seen Rinehart?

They parted company outside the front entrance. As Hammond walked back to his car, he felt overwhelmed by the whole performance.

Traben had been masterful. He had undoubtedly thought Hammond dead until he actually appeared in the lobby, at MTL's doorstep, so to speak. Yet in the short time Coogan had kept him occupied, Traben had managed to assemble his act.

Maybe Hammond would have a chance to see Kurtnauer in three weeks—if Traben couldn't invent an excuse. Was this a gigantic stall? If they were doing it to buy time, how much did they need and why?

He couldn't help himself: his instincts said Rinehart had told him the truth. And if he had, MTL would never be able to produce Kurtnauer. But that could be checked through State Department records.

And what about Coogan—the security chief—big and beefy with his black hair in that military crewcut? He had spoken of Rinehart without any prompting from Hammond. Did he know Rinehart was dead?
 

Hammond stopped at the car door, pulled the file out of his briefcase and checked the number that had been on all the flags at BUPERS. He was already sure.

9805CGN.

CGN. Coogan.

He stood back and stared at the olive drab building. Façades. All of them facades. He could tell tales to Gault from now till Christmas, but without cracking those façades and dredging up real evidence, he was, as Slater put it, up shit creek.

Was it possible Rinehart had been lying? That Traben was as innocent as he portrayed himself? If so, why was Rinehart killed?

Because once Hammond had found him, he became too dangerous. So they had murdered him, tried to kill Hammond, failed, and now had thrown him a bone to gnaw on.

Until they could try again.

He shivered. Before he got into the car, he made
a
thorough search for a bomb.

Hammond drove straight to the Federal Building in Westwood. At the Navy Office of Information, he showed his credentials and commandeered a desk and a phone. He managed to reach Ensign Just-Ducky at home. She let out a great big sigh. "You know, Hammond," she said, "this is ridiculous. If you want a date, you don't have to fly all the way to Los Angeles to call me."

"Very funny. Have you got a pencil?" She grunted a reply. "Okay, get hold of the Data Center first thing in the morning. Have them run a check through BUPERS on one Joseph Coogan, possible former Navy officer. Have them check the State Department for current status on the passport and visas of one Dr. Emil Kurtnauer, Austrian-born, possible naturalized American with dual Israeli citizenship. I want to know whether Dr. Kurtnauer has returned from Israel at any time in the last ten years. If so, dates, port of entry, et cetera. Then I want a run-down on security clearances for Micro-Technology Laboratories in Manhattan Beach, California. Was Kurtnauer ever cleared by the FBI to work there? And I want a complete portfolio on the company itself teletyped to the Los Angeles Navy PIO. I'll be here at 0900 tomorrow morning—that's noon your time. Okay?"

There was a long silence punctuated by a groan, then she asked him to spell Kurtnauer.

"One other thing," he added, "get hold of Cohen or Slater through Jack Pohl. Have one of them call me here at 0930 tomorrow."

"Yes, sir."
      

"And get some rest, Ensign. You sound like someone's been pushing you too hard."

Jan Fletcher lived in a fashionable section of Brentwood, north of Sunset Boulevard on a street called Homewood. The house was a one-story ranch-style home on a large tree-shaded lot. Hammond walked to the front door and rang the bell.

She opened the door and smiled tentatively as she let him in. She walked ahead of him and down a few steps to the living room. It was long, with huge glass doors that opened onto a patio and an enormous backyard. There was a novel overturned on an ottoman, and a half-empty cocktail glass on the coffee table.

"Can I get you a drink, Nicky?"
      

"Please." He nodded. She went to the bar and he looked around, impressed by the decor. It was very California, especially the fossil-stone and brass fireplace that jutted out into the center of the room.

"I wanted to get rid of that," said Jan, following his gaze, "but Harold loved it." She returned with Hammond's drink. "A big fireplace was his status symbol. Comes from living in too many apartments with radiators."

She met Hammond's gaze and let him search her face. Her eyes seemed cool and distant.

"I'm all right now," she said. "I've gotten used to being alone again." She picked up her drink and sipped at it.

"I'm glad," he said, and smiled.

"You're glad I'll
alone?"

Hammond blinked. "I'm sorry. What a dumb thing to say."

She sat on the edge of the ottoman, her knees pressed together. "Hammond...why are you here?"

He sighed. "I think I acted like a rat before. I wish there were some way I could make it up to you."

She studied him objectively. "There is. Tell me what's on your mind."

He laughed. "I thought you said not to bring my work around."

"If it concerns me, then it's not just your work—it's an obligation."

He felt something move in his stomach. "I guess I do owe you..." he said and paced to the bar for another ice cube. He called back over his shoulder, "How much did Harold confide in you?"

"That's impossible to answer, isn't it? If half his life were a secret, how would I know it?"

"You always seemed to know when
I
was hiding something."

She smiled and crossed her legs, relaxing. Hammond walked back slowly, his eyes on her calves. She looked so good in a skirt....

"You did look into his background, didn't you?" she said. "That's, what you've been working on; that's why you're here."
      
-

He nodded. "Believe me, there's nothing in Harold's, past that will ever change your opinion of him, whatever that is. But he knew things that couldn't...that were buried inside." Her expression changed to puzzlement. He took a deep breath and said, "What if I told you that Harold's nightmare was
real?"

She stared at him. "What—what do you mean?" she stammered.

"I mean real. All of it. Not just a dream: it happened. He really was in Philadelphia, there was an experiment, and he was part of it."

Her eyes were wide. "Is it true?" she breathed.

"Let me put it this way," he said. "I've found other men with the same dream." She stared back. "And the same
doctor."
      

Her eyes searched his, probing. "McCarthy—?"

"Yes."

"He made her sit down, then briefly described what McCarthy had been doing to his patients for twenty years. He told her about Yablonski and Olively, but he held back on Harold's death. She would ask soon enough: it wouldn't take her long to put two and two together. She listened stonily as he described McCarthy's technique, then interrupted him to ask why.

He explained Project Thin Air quickly and calmly, and she sat there, growing incredulous. He had just finished telling about the 1953 experiment when she rose slowly and left the room.

Hammond followed her into the kitchen. He watched her move around like a zombie. She put lamb chops under the broiler, then turned to make a salad.

He caught her eye and said, "You don't want to believe it. I can't blame you."

"I'd rather believe Harold was crazy."

"So would I."

She glanced at him once, then wouldn't look again. She concentrated on the dinner. He wasn't surprised by her disbelief. It was an idiotic story. He'd known that as he was telling it. It would be a miracle if Gault accepted even one word of it.

Finally, Hammond sighed and said, "I'm feeling grubby. Would you mind if I had a bath?"

She put down a paring knife without a word and led him to a huge tiled bathroom, then walked out, closing the door.

While the tub filled, he stripped and examined his cuts and bruises in the mirror. He looked like a patchwork quilt of red, green, blue, and white. What a mess. He rummaged for Epsom salts to put in the tub and stopped to stare at the array of toiletries on the counter. She had not yet removed the traces of Harold Fletcher.