“You know I can’t do that Jack. Phoenix has information relating to the Moon Mask. All I need is access—”
“You think I can give you access?” Harman laughed. “I don’t even have access.”
“You’re the Director of Intelligence at the CIA—”
“I know that Alex, but even my clearance has limits.”
That was astonishing. The upper echelons of the CIA were made up of the directors of Intelligence, Science & Technology, Support, the Centre for the Study of Intelligence and the National Clandestine Service. These five directors reported to the Associate Deputy Director, the Deputy Director and the Director himself. For someone of Harman’s level to be denied access to anything in the CIA meant that it was one of the most closely guarded secrets in America.
“But you know the file exists,” Langley accused. “So you must know something about it.”
“All I know is that whatever it contains, it is dangerous. And by trying to access it you’ve dropped yourself smack bang in the middle of that danger.”
“I’m willing to take that chance Jack.”
“Well I’m not.” Langley knew what his friend was saying. He’d been ordered not to speak to Langley and he knew that, by showing an interest in whatever Phoenix was, all the eyes and the ears of the CIA would be watching him. Most likely this phone call was being recorded and if Harman gave away anything he’d be thrusting himself and his family into whatever danger he’d implied existed.
“I understand,” Langley said. “Sorry for interrupting your evening.”
Just as he went to hang up, Harman interrupted. “Alex,” he said nervously. “Be careful.”
Forty-five minutes later, Alex Langley walked up to the porch of the Braun residence and knocked twice.
Situated right on the rocky coastline with its own jetty, moored to the end of which was a ramshackle small blue and white motorboat, the house was in generally good shape but could have used a lick of paint and a tidy-up in the yard. Most of the houses in Sea Girt, just over a hundred miles south of New York City, were of a similar style. It was a place, Langley guessed, where the middle-class liked to retire; a sort of poor-man’s posh neighbourhood filled with dentists, plastic surgeons, retired car sales men and medium-level entrepreneurs.
After a lengthy wait, he at last heard the sounds of keys turning and then the door creaked open. A small lady peered out at him and despite her advanced years — she had to be pushing ninety — she glared at him without any sense of intimidation.
“What do you want?” she demanded in a strong southern drawl that was somehow out of keeping with her frail appearance.
“Missus Braun? My name is Alex Langley. I work for the United Nations. I’m sorry for your loss, but I was hoping I might be able to ask you some questions about your husband—”
“I already answered all your questions,” she replied defensively. “I ain’t got nothin’ more to say to you suits.”
“Suits?”
“That’s right. You lot, in your fancy suits, coming around here terrorising poor Emmett all of his life. And what’s he get for his troubles? Knocked off. Is that what you’re here for? To finish me off too?”
Langley tried to hide the quiet bemusement that twitched the corners of his mouth. “I assure you Missus Braun. I’m not here to ‘knock’ anyone off.”
She looked him up and down, her eyes sharp and calculating. They lingered for a moment on the five-o’clock shadow around his lower jaw and his tired eyes. “You do seem different to the others. Alright, you got five minutes. Come on in.”
She thrust the door wide open and then descended into the long corridor leaving Langley to let himself in. He followed her into living room where she had crashed onto a threadbare green and red floral sofa. Langley scanned the room, noting the antiquated television set in the corner standing in stark contrast to the ultra-modern-looking computer which seemed out of place in an otherwise typical old-person’s-home. Scattered amongst shelves full of trinkets — bells, ceramic eggs, shoes and Russian dolls — were dozens of photos depicting what he supposed were the same two people. Some were old, sepia, and portrayed a young man and woman, both handsome in their day, but as the photographs got newer, the couple grew older.
He picked one up. “Is this your husband?”
“The clocks-a-ticking, Langley. You’ve got four minutes left.”
This was no soft, reminiscing granny he was talking to but a harsh, sharp witted woman whom he was sure could hold her own in the UN Council chamber. He discarded the pleasantries and got straight to the point.
“Did your husband ever talk about his work?”
“My husband was a patriot Mister Langley. A patriot until the day he died. If he was ordered not to talk about his work, even to me, then he wouldn’t so much as utter a word.” She shrugged. “Not consciously at least.”
“Not consciously? What do you mean?”
“Emmett had dreams — nightmares really. Or night terrors.” Her face turned hard again. “Whatever you people had him involved in, it haunted him all his life. When he was asleep, he’d cry out, calling names, screaming and babbling incoherently. Get them out!” she screamed suddenly, startling Langley with her impression. “Get them out! He’d scream over and over again.”
“When did these dreams start?” Langley asked. “I know he was at Chernobyl. Was it after that?”
The old woman laughed with a bitter twist of melancholy. “Do you want to know why Emmett went into medicine? Why he spent his entire life studying the effects that radiation has on the human body and trying to find ways to treat it?”
Langley felt like saying ‘not if it eats into my four minutes’ but kept his mouth shut. The old lady’s change in topical direction might reveal something.
“Emmett wasn’t interested in science, or nuclear power… and certainly not war. All that he cared about was his duty. His duty to me, his wife. His duty to his country. But most importantly, he cared about his duty to his race, to humanity. That is a duty that goes beyond national boundaries, beyond flags. That’s why he was at Chernobyl. That is why, even as a very old man, retired, he was at Fukashima. That is why, at the age of almost ninety, he went with those men in suits almost two weeks ago, and he never returned.” Her voice began to crack, raw emotion threatening to weaken her hard resolve. “Now I am become death; the destroyer of worlds,” she whispered.
The words hit Langley. The very same worlds had been going through his head since the tachyon threat fell in his lap.
“Robert Oppenheimer said those words, referring to his thoughts when they detonated the first atom-bomb,” she explained needlessly. Langley knew the words, originally spoken by Vishnu in Hindu scripture, very well. “Emmett used to quote them whenever he heard of another nuclear accident. He knew right from the beginning that those horrible weapons brought about far more death and horror than just the initial blast. And then they started building nuclear power stations!” The vehemence died away into melancholy again and Langley could see that she was on an emotional rollercoaster, one minute high and angry and hard as nails, the next small and weak and longing to be reunited with her lost love.
“He told me once,” she continued, “that in cracking the atom mankind had released the ultimate evil upon itself and that, after all he had seen, it was his responsibility, his duty, to battle it. Everywhere that people were dying and suffering because of radiation, Emmett went, always questing to ease their suffering, always hoping that what he learned this time would save people the next time.” She gestured her head sharply at the computer in the corner. “He used to sit on that infernal thing for days on end, even after he’d retired, even when he became an old, old man. He never gave up. He never forgot his duty.”