Cap Haitien (Reuters)—San Francisco resident Lewis McBride, 26, was feared dead today when rescuers called off their search for his missing plane in the rugged mountains west of this city.
McBride was the only passenger in a chartered Cessna that disappeared in a storm Tuesday evening. Haitian air controllers in Port-au-Prince report that no urgent or emergency broadcasts were received from the plane.
The area in which the Cessna is believed to have gone down is uninhabited, mountainous jungle. Efforts to search for the plane have been inhibited by continuing bad weather.
A Stanford University graduate, with a doctoral degree in psychology, McBride had been traveling on a foundation grant for the last two years. Professor Ian Hartwig of Stanford expressed his shock and sadness at the “tragic loss of this fine young man.”
McBride leaves no survivors.
Graphic: photo (McBride)
Adrienne sat back in her chair and thought about it. Was Duran really McBride? Or was this just another stolen identity? What if he had a whole series of identities, a nesting set like a matrioshka doll—and this one, Lew McBride, was still several shells away from the innermost one? What was this business about beating his family to death? There was nothing in the papers about it—and, clearly, the Reuter’s article meant it never happened. If McBride had killed someone, the story would have mentioned it—and the Stanford professor would not have described him as a “fine young man.”
Nexis generated text, not images, but if a photograph appeared with a story, that information was included in the printout. Graphic: photo (McBride). So that meant when she found the article on microfiche, there’d be a picture, too. A picture of McBride.
When Charlie Dorgan got to work, Ray Shaw was waiting for him on the couch in the reception area outside his office. Seeing his old pal, Dorgan lowered his head, nodded to his secretary—“Pearl”—and marched into his inner sanctum.
With Shaw hard on his heels, closing the door behind them.
“Charlie—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” Dorgan told him, raising a hand as if he were about to swear an oath. “I can’t talk about this.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean we can’t talk about it. I mean that you will not receive a report about the little item you sent—so stop asking me, or you’re going to ruin a beautiful friendship.” With that, the physicist collapsed into the chair behind his desk, swiveled around and turned his eyes toward the ceiling.
Shaw made a helpless gesture. “I don’t get it.”
“It’s classified,” Dorgan said.
“What is?”
“The device. It’s a neurophonic prosthesis. Made of bioglass.”
“So it’s invisible to the body’s immune system.”
“Right.”
It was Ray Shaw’s turn to sit down. Settling onto the arm of a leather chair, he thought about what the physicist was saying.
“You should have told me how sensitive this was,” Dorgan complained.
“I didn’t know—”
“I was showing the Goddamn thing to anyone who’d look at it! And Fred—you know Fred—he goes way back—he takes a look, and he says, ‘We used to play with these in grad school.’ And I said, when was that—the Stone Age? And he laughs, and says, ‘Yeah, it was—everyone in the lab had his own lava lamp.’ Very funny. So I asked him: what is it? And he says, ‘Well, Charlie, it’s a neurophonic prosthesis—now I have to kill you.’ Ha ha, I say. And he gives me a funny look. A funny look!”
“You’re kidding.”
“The hell I am: he gives me a funny look, and says, ‘Seriously,’—seriously—‘you shouldn’t have that thing. It was a government program. Very hush-hush. One of those programs that never happened. An experimental program.’”
Shaw’s face darkened. “This wasn’t an experiment,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I removed it from a patient.”
Dorgan blinked several times. Got his breath back. And asked: “Is that supposed to be a joke?”
“No.”
The physicist pursed his lips, and took a deep breath. “The next thing you know, I’ve got visitors.” He paused for emphasis.
“Who?” Shaw asked.
“‘Who?’ Who do ya think? The Smoking Man and his evil twin—the Other Smoking Man.”
Shaw chuckled.
“I’m not kidding,” Dorgan insisted. “These guys were straight out of Central Casting. Big trench coats, and no sense of irony.”
“They say who they’re with?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact—it came up. They said they were with the Pentagon,” Dorgan replied, “only I notice their business cards have a 301 area code.”
“Which means… ?”
Dorgan shrugged. “NSA?”
Shaw frowned. “So what was the point of the visit?”
“They wanted to know how I’d ‘come into possession of the device.’”
“And you told them?” Shaw asked, his face a mask of disappointment.
“Of course I told them! What was I supposed to do, Ray? They scared the shit out of me.”
“So…”
Dorgan hesitated. Finally, he said, “I don’t know. Maybe you should expect a visit.”
Chapter 32
She had been sitting in the reception area for nearly twenty minutes when the door to Shaw’s office swung wide, and two men in black trench coats emerged, looking grim. Crossing the room to the hallway, they let themselves out without a word, while Shaw himself lingered in the doorway with a worried look on his face.
Tossing the New Yorker onto the table beside the couch, Adrienne got to her feet, and cleared her throat.
The psychiatrist turned to her with a distracted air. For a moment, it seemed as if he didn’t recognize her. Then he did, and, waking suddenly, exclaimed, “Adrienne! Migod, come in.”
She followed him into his office, and took a seat in front of his desk. “Is something wrong?” she asked.
The psychiatrist looked worried and confused at the same time. “I’m not supposed to mention their visit,” he told her.
“Whose visit?”
“The men who were just here.”
“Oh,” she said, uncertain what he meant.
Shaw frowned. Looked her in the eyes. “You haven’t told me everything, have you? About our friend.”
She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “No,” she admitted. “Not everything.”
“Because, now… well, now there’s trouble.”
She was stricken at the thought that she’d drawn this kind and generous man into the mixing bowl of her own problems. And Duran’s. McBride’s. Nikki’s. “I thought, the less you knew…”
“They asked me for his medical file. I refused to give it to them.”
“Who?”
“The men who were here.”
Adrienne thought about it. “And who are they?”
The psychiatrist shook his head. “They said they’re with a government agency.”
“What agency?”
“They didn’t say.”
Adrienne made a face. “Well, if they want his medical file, they can get a subpoena—”
Doctor Shaw shook his head, and smiled ruefully. “I don’t think that’s the way they work. They were very forceful.”
“Oh.”
The psychiatrist did his best to push the men out of his mind. “You were going to look into Mr. McBride’s story. Did you find anything?”
Adrienne was relieved to change, if not the subject, the direction it was heading in. “Absolutely!” she exclaimed. “Beginning with the fact that he is who he says he is—except that he’s supposed to be dead.”
“What?”
“And he isn’t married. No wife, no child. No indictments for murder or anything else. None of that happened.” She removed a copy of the LOCAL MAN FEARED DEAD article from her purse, and pushed it across the desk. “He’s got longer hair in the picture, but… you can see it’s him.”