In his office, McClain took out a can of peach halves from the top drawer of his desk, then fumbled deeper inside searching for the can opener, pushing the Mauser to one side. His frustration in locating it was compounded by trying to effect symbiosis between can and opener. He wrestled with the can for a few minutes before giving up.
“Goddamnit!”
McClain pressed a button on his intercom.
“Ginnie, could you get in here, please?”
Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead which was furrowed beneath bushy black eyebrows.
To an outsider ruddy complexioned McClain was a heart-attack waiting to happen; there was little doubt that he was overweight, something his doctor had been at pains to warn him of. The stress didn’t help!
“Damn and blast the contraption …” he said, flicking the can opener away.
McClain’s desk sat on a large tartan carpet which covered most of a tiled floor and faced a closed door that led to the outer office, to the left was a small cabinet where he kept his booze.
The centre of the desk was smooth and shiny, the shadow of the peaches can, eclipsed by the light of neon signs shining through the window, flickered and danced across the surface. On the left was a shallow pile of light brown folders on top of which sat six blue pencils, neatly sharpened and of equal length, to the right was a typewriter, a new model with a blank sheet of paper in the feed, and a grey-filled ashtray serving as testament to the weight of McClain’s workload.
In front of the typewriter sat two phones adjacent to one another; a bulk-standard black one to the left and a red one to the right. The former was linked to the switchboard on the desk of his secretary, Ginnie, in the outer office. The latter was a direct line to a nondescript little office in Langley, Virginia which was manned twenty-fours a day. In front of the phones sat the small intercom.
From outside, the sounds of homeward commuters, street vendors and busy car horns filtered through the half-open window; it was past the end of the working day and the office was quiet, all McLain was anticipating was the arrival of the evening paper.
A tall woman entered the room, his secretary, Ginnie. She was rather gangly, and though not unattractive, she made little of her appearance and the plain bottle green dress that she was wearing did little to enhance her femininity.
“The can?” she said, as she surveyed his desk.
McClain murmured in response and she leaned over and effortlessly opened the can for him.
“There,” said Ginnie, stepping back.
“Shall I …?” she said, nodding at the cabinet.
“Much obliged.”
Ginnie brushed past the back of McClain’s chair leaving the faint smell of perfume behind her.
“You’ll have one?” McClain enquired.
“Not for me, thank you all the same,” she replied, pouring a good measure of whiskey from a crystal decanter into a matching tumbler – above her on the wall hung a portrait of Dwight D. Eisenhower, the Commander in Chief, wearing an enigmatic smile.
“You should get home,” she blinked.
“I will, I will. You know how it is. Long day.”
Ginnie placed the tumbler beside the can of peaches. “Shall I get you a fork?”
“Of course. I mean, yes, of course. Can’t seem to think …”
“And the evening paper?”
“Yes … thanks!”
Ginnie left the room, returning with a fork and information that the paper would be delivered shortly downstairs. She hovered for a moment, watching McClain’s glass.
“Shall I get you another?”
“Not yet.” He waved away her offer; loosening his tie, he leaned back in his chair. “Just the paper, and get yourself off.”
“Thank you, Mr. McClain. Shall I organize a cab?”
“No need, no need.” He waved her away again, though not rudely, there was an understanding between them, almost as if they were going through a daily routine.
“Right you are,” and she left the office leaving McClain alone.
“Long day indeed,” he mumbled.
He pushed back his chair and quickly made his way over to the cabinet; poured himself another slug, then returned to his seat. He made sure he drunk just enough to make it look as if he was still on his first, although his cheeks were more flushed than usual when Ginnie opened the door again and placed the evening paper in front of him on the desk.
“I’ll get off then.”
“Yes, yes, good-night.”
He still hadn’t touched the peaches – something which Ginnie noticed but failed to mention as she gave him a nod and left the room once more.
McClain opened the paper randomly giving the front page only a cursory glance.
He wasn’t looking for anything in particular but suddenly his attention was fully focused and his world began to spin.
“My God!”
He reached for the button on the intercom.
“Ginnie, get in here.”
His secretary entered the room, this time wearing a bland brown coloured coat.
“Yes?”
“Ginnie, Get me Barrel on the line.”
“Barrel…?”
“Yes, Barrel. And make it snappy!”
“Right you are.”
Ginnie turned back. “Is this important?”
“You’re Goddamn right this is …” McClain paused. “Just get me through to Barrel and be off. I’ll handle this. Route my calls straight through.”
Their eyes met, some question in Ginnie’s.
“I’ve got this,” McClain repeated and ran four stubby fingers through his hair.
“It’s probably nothing,” he murmured, this time more lightly.
“Need to check something …”
McClain lifted the fork and made to start on his peaches but once Ginnie had left the room he focused on the paper and on what he’d seen; his hands were shaking.
Four paragraphs, the essence of which said:
American ‘pioneers’ fail again to reach the moon. The third attempt this year ends with a technical failure of the third stage power boosters. Simple bad luck or suspicions of corruption justified? Full report to follow …
A. T. McClain (NASA)
The words sat in a nondescript fashion between a financial article on the rising costs of inner-city real estate and an advert for bleaching detergent.
The intercom crackled and Ginnie announced “Mr. Barrel for you.”
“Okay, thanks. You be off now … just put the phone through.”
McClain picked up the phone whilst at the same time removing his spectacles.
“Barrel?”
“McClain.” The acknowledgement being firm and sharp.
“You seen the evening edition?” said McClain, with equal authority in his tone.
“Not yet,” came the answer. “Anything I should be concerned about?”
“You could say that.”
McClain placed the receiver back down, cutting off the call. He stood and walked over to the cabinet and poured another whiskey; once again seated, he began on the peaches.
The phone rang and he quickly lifted the receiver.
“McClain.”
“We may have a problem,” responded the caller.
“You’re goddamn right we do,” McClain mumbled, chewing and swallowing.
There was a pause.
“You’d like to like find out who did this?”
“Damn right, I do,” replied McClain.
“You serious?”
“Of course I am … why wouldn’t I be?”
Another pause.
“You mean a Code Red?”
“That’s your call, Barrel.”
“And you’re … look, McClain, I have to ask. You sure you didn’t …”
“What do you take me for?”
“Okay, okay,” came the reply. “You know a lot of people will be …”
“Asking, yeah, I know.” McClain coughed. “How much time do you think I have?”
There was silence as the magnitude of that question began to form.
“McClain, I’ll vouch for you.”
“Like that’ll do any good.”
“McClain …”
“Yeah.”
“The Code Red, I’ll put it through. But there’ll also be …”
“Sure … just trace that article!” McClain replaced the receiver, his eyes looking tired. Pushing the peaches to one side, he reached for the whiskey, then leaned back in his chair.
The fan in the ceiling whirled slowly and McClain paced restlessly around the office, but it was thirty minutes until the phone rang again and he slumped back into his chair
“Yes?”
“I understand you’d like some information.”
“Yes, yes, I … who is this?”
“Names are not important,” responded the rough voice. “My assistance was requested. You are Allen McClain. I hear you’d like to track down the source of a newspaper report …”
“Yes.” McClain stood, still holding the receiver. He picked up the phone and went over to the window and looked down on the busy street below … and a phone booth opposite the building with a hunched figure inside. Wide hat and long coat.
“I just need you to confirm.”
The figure turned around fully and looked up at the window, though there was no way he could have seen McClain looking back at him.
“What’s your brief?” McClain demanded.
“That an article has appeared in the newspaper on your desk, and you’d like to take care of the source.”
“In a manner of speaking.” McClain squinted trying to focus on the features of the man in the phone booth. “It was just …”
“We can find who wrote it.”
“You can?” McClain stammered. “Whoever it is, they need to be dealt with; Barrel understands.”
“That’s our business,” came the reply matter-of-factly and the man in the booth turned away, “You’ll hear from one of us shortly.”
“Right … right you are.” There was a flash of lightning that startled McClain. Three seconds later the distant sound of rumbling, then the pitter-patter of rain spitting hard at the window.
McClain watched the figure stride purposefully along to the next block, tightening his coat, one hand up to his hat.
When he had disappeared, McClain began to laugh – deep and from the belly; low, rumbling with a hint of mania.
All of a sudden, the phone rang again; arresting McClain for the second time in a minute; he snatched at the receiver, “Yes?”
“Allen …?”
McClain swayed unsteadily and collapsed into his chair.
“Allen, are you there?”
“Sure.”
“You all right?” It was a woman’s voice.
“Fine, Jenny. How are things?”
McClain, switching the receiver from right hand to left, reached into his breast pocket with his free hand. He pulled out a packet of Lucky Strikes, expertly managing to extract a cigarette and light it in one swift motion that also involved taking the zippo from his right waist pocket.
“Allen, you wouldn’t believe it.”
“Wouldn’t I?” McClain let out a puff of smoke.
“The day I’ve had. I don’t know where to start.”
“Sure …”
“First the car, then the neighbour’s dog; that godawful Rottweiler, what do they call that thing? Some ridiculous …”
“No idea.” McClain coughed.
“Pitcher, that’s it. If you ask me …”
“Ask you what?”
“… stupid name, that’s all.”
“Right.”
“Yes, okay, Allen, I’m sure you don’t want to hear about all my troubles.”
“No, no, go on,” McClain replied, drawing on his cigarette, eyes distant. “What did Pitcher do this time?”
“You think I’m calling you up to chat about the neighbour’s dog?”
McClain moved in his seat, flicking at the already full ashtray. “No idea,” he drawled.
“Allen?”
“Yep?”
“It’s Susie. She got into a fight again.”
“Again?”
“With a boy.”
“A boy, eh?”
“And you can stop smirking,” the voice said, guessing the expression on McClain’s face. “It’s the third time this year and they want … they’ve requested that we go there. Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.”
“The both of us.”
McClain shifted. “Can’t Tom …”
“No, Allen. It’s her father they want to see. Things are awkward enough already. For her. I’ve no wish to go parading …”
“No, quite. I understand.” McClain was looking at the paper, his right forefinger gently resting against his typed name. “What time?”
“Eight o’clock.”
“In the morning?”
“Yes, in the morning. You can’t get here for …”
“No, no, I’ll make it.”
The voice huffed. “You sure you’re alright?”
“Never better.”
“… Well, I’ll be off then. You want to speak to Susie?”
“Is she there?” McClain asked.
“I can get her …”
Behind, from the window, there was another flash of lightning.
“Is it raining there?”
“The yard’s flooded!”
“Tom with you?”
“Allen, you know he is.”
“Of course.” McClain huffed. “And you’re exaggerating, right?”
“Exaggerating?”
“About Susie … the fight?”
“Do you want to speak to her or not?”
“No, no. I’ll see her tomorrow. Eight o’clock, you say.”
“Allen, you sound tired.”
“I’m Fine, I told you.”
“You need to get home, Allen … your health … when was the last time you had a check-up?”
“On my way. See you in the morning, Jenny.”
McClain stood from the chair, then hesitated before putting the receiver down. He lifted it and listened, but the line was dead – he stared at the now dormant telephone, mouth open as if there had been more to say; something he’d forgotten; something that had slipped his mind.
Huffing, he went once more to the whiskey cabinet, fixed himself a new drink; this time with a hefty measure of soda.
“Roll with the punches,” he murmured. He smirked again, then turned at the window and looked out at the vacant telephone booth across the way.
The phone rang and he let it. Three, four rings.
Slowly, calmly, McClain approached the desk.
“McClain!”
“The information you requested … Allen Thomas McClain. Forty-seven. Divorced. Bachelor in physics, first class.”
A different voice; “Who is this?”
“Works at the Seers conglomerate. A cog. Though of course, that’s merely a cover. Information tells us that McClain is working for NASA, though we’re having some trouble in determining what exactly he does for them.”
“What do you want?” McClain spat. Sweat had begun to form on his brow. “Who are you? How did you get this number?” even though he knew full well.
“An associate … a colleague,” replied the voice – high pitched with the twang of an accent that McClain couldn’t quite place.
“What do you want?”
“You asked for information. These are the results of our investigation.”
“I asked Barrel … who is this?”
“That is not important … we have completed our research and come to the conclusion that the article was written by A. T. McClain, as stated.”
“Impossible,” said McClain, pulling at the telephone chord in agitation, “I am A. T. McClain!”
“That surely is ironic … Five foot eight?” the voice continued. “Jet black hair with specks of grey? Short back and sides? Dark-rimmed, tinted spectacles with thick lenses? Stocky in build? A preference for Italian suits? Resides at 421 Park Avenue, though owns a much larger property in Rhode Island? There’s a daughter, Susan who lives with her mother and a man, Tom who has yet to become …”
“Goddamnit, yes, that’s me you’re describing. So what of it? This is madness! Somebody has used my name, but it wasn’t me who wrote the article.”
“Just passing on the message,” the voice said. “We take it you will not be sanctioning the order!”
“Order on what?”
Nothing was said for a moment. McClain breathed heavily, two words spinning in his head Code Red.
The voice breathed, “It’s your call.”
“What do you mean my call? You think I’m gonna authorise my own …?”
McClain’s hands were shaking. His face deeply flushed red.
“We thought as much.”
“What kind of a two-bit outfit are you?!” McClain began to shout.
“I am merely passing on the information that you requested; don’t shoot the messenger!” the caller replied calmly.
“Or the client,” McClain jibed sarcastically.
There was a click and the line went dead. McClain punched at the desk, immediately regretting his action and flexed his right fist, inspecting his knuckles as the phone pulsed into life once again.
McClain grabbed at the receiver aggressively, knocking the base across the desk.
“Goddamnit, I’ll kill you!”
“Allen?”
“God …” McClain began to convulse. “Jenny, I didn’t …”
“Allen …” she stammered, “… are you okay?”
“Yes, fine, sorry,” McClain replied, trying to relax himself, somehow pushing his words into a calmer tone.”
“Who did you think I was?”
“Nobody. Just, nobody; what do you want, Jenny?”
“Nothing. Maybe I shouldn’t have …”
“Out with it.”
“Now there’s no need …”
“Damnit, Jenny?!”
The line went dead.
Stressed completely, McClain felt too angry to know what to do next. His dark shoes dug into the tartan carpet. Eisenhower smiled down.
Got to be some kind of joke … think God-damnit, think!
McClain hit at the button on the intercom, “Ginnie …” then remembered she was gone.
“Damned …”
Composing himself he straightened the phone, then stepped back.
Think man, think. There has to be something …What was it he said? … Bachelor of Physics – First Class? No mention of the Doctorate! Why not? … a hole in the research!
He was startled again as the phone suddenly rang out.
“McClain,” he answered.
“Mac, it’s me.”
“Barrel! Damnit, what the hell is going on?”
“You tell me, Mac.” Barrel’s reply was calm, yet firm.
McClain stood straighter, sweating and breathing heavily. He hesitated, stuttereded, and tried to think of a reply that would at least make some sense.
“Now you listen to me,” McClain answered. “I’ve no idea what’s going on here, but I’ll get to the bottom of it. You have my word.”
“It’s too late,” came the answer.
“What do you mean, too late?”
“Only a select few know why the Pioneer missions are being corrupted. If it were to get out …”
“But it won’t. Why would it? We have kept a lid on things all these years.”
“I’m sorry, McClain.”
“You’re sorry? Whaddya mean I’m sorry? Damnit, Barrel!”
“I’ll see that Ginnie and Susie are taken care of.”
“Barrel, I’m pleading with you here. Just give me some time. I can prove it wasn’t me. I’ve got no reason …” McClain clutched at the phone, “Barrel, why would I? What would I have to gain?”
“Gotta admit,” replied Barrel. “I was surprised. What was it? You get cold feet?”
“Barrel, I’m telling you.” McClain was desperate. “All that I know. All these years. I was there, at Roswell, oversaw the project … after all this time why would I sabotage everything? Answer me that! Why?”
“McClain … I can’t … it’s too late. Wheels are in motion; I just wanted to let you know,” the voice, ironically, seemed to have grown warmer, “No hard feelings and all that.”
McClain stood there staring at the wall, then it dawned on him …
He needed some time! Stall and give himself some time to think.
“It was an impostor, I tell you. A setup. One of them.” He shouted down the phone.
“One of?”
“Damned Pinkos. You know how it is.”
“I see. The Russians.”
“Yeah, the Russians; who do you think I meant? Damn it, they’re framing me.”
“The Commies?”
“Yeah, they’ve sucked you in with a hint at something that is just not happening and you’ve bought it … convicted me without a trial”
“A hint is all it takes. You know that as well as I do.”
McClain’s breaths began to speed up; adrenalin was flowing. Think man, think!
“Barrel! by God!” McClain appeared overcome with rage. “What do you want?!”
“Barrel?” but the line was dead.
There was silence.
McClain fell back into the chair; the phone, hanging off its hook, dangling beside him.
“Goddamn … setup. Think man, think!”
* * *
McClain straightened his desk and put the can-opener back in the top drawer but left it open.
He was thinking more rationally now, things were clicking into place.
His time at Area 51, the Roswell incident. The research. The astonishing advances in electronics and biochemistry. The whole new field of DNA study and genetic engineering. The cloning initiative!
Everything had to be controlled. A gradual release into contemporary culture. They had kept a lid on it. … but now? Something had happened. The cat was out of the bag.
Overlooking his Doctorate was sloppy. Somebody had messed up.
Now there was the Barrel problem.
There were two options; first, it wasn’t Barrel. He had known Jenny for over fifteen years, and he wouldn’t refer to her as Ginnie, not even by accident.
The second option was that he had sent a warning because he was being coerced to liaise with McClain under duress.
Either way, the Area 51 mission had been compromised and it had to be contained.
* * *
The door of McClain’s office opened and from the dimly lit outer office, the silhouette of a large man came into view. The man stood facing McClain, trilby dipping forward, raindrops dropping to the floor. Even in the semi-darkness, this man, in appearance, was not at all unlike McClain himself, but that was what he had been expecting.
“Allen. T. McClain, I presume,” McClain muttered, not focusing clearly on the figure framed by the doorway. He was tired and worn, his collar and tie loose now, his whole face and neck were blotched in red marks, but he was more alive than he had been in years. His glasses were still on the desk beside the filthy ashtray; the phone and typewriter were neatly squared beside the folders and pencils. The whiskey bottle stood next to the still unfinished can of peaches; unashamedly in full view.
“So here you are, then,” said McClain, swirling the fingers of his left hand in irony, his right arm resting on the open drawer.
“Better get on with it, then. Do what you came here to do.”
“Any last words, Mr. McClain?” said the man, stepping forward. In his right hand was a small black revolver with a silencer.
“Yeah,” McClain replied, looking up lazily. “Give my love to Ginnie and Susie.”
“I’ll take good care of them, rest assured.”
Their eyes met: McClain’s and the eyes of his assassin. Eerily, a pair of eyes he knew from the reflection in his own mirror.
“My God,” McClain stammered. “What … what the hell is this?”
But it was only for a fleeting moment that he didn’t understand.
Not only to be terminated with extreme prejudice, but to be replaced.
Taking care of his ex-wife and daughter now had an alternative meaning, and what of Ginnie. Was she to be taken care of as well?
He had to get to them first.
Code Red was a deterrent for those in a position such as his. Those with authority, knowledge and power … but now it was open to abuse … and flawed.
“Time to say good-night,” said the figure suddenly in the door-well.
“Good-night,” said McClain squeezing the trigger of the Mauser in his right hand.
A flash inside the office and Allen. T. McClain fell to the tartan carpet.
McClain picked up the red phone and waited for a click at the other end. Code Blue; Station Alpha-Five-Sierra was all he said before hanging up.
He looked down at his Nemesis on the floor … ugly looking bastard he muttered as he stepped over the corpse and hurried through the door.
Eisenhower looked on with his Mona Lisa smile.
(Alternative version by Alan Morton, writer of The Night Shift and Train Connections)
