Chapter 1
Washington, D.C., is perhaps one of the most unusual cities in the world, filled with beauty, covered with paradoxes, and stocked with secrets that could tear the very country apart or heal a wounded planet.
Each April, bright pink-and-white blossoms bloom on trees surrounding a man-made tributary of the Potomac River, gifts from a country defeated by the nation governed by this capital: cherry blossom trees, from Japan. Although categorized in the 1800s by the British Foreign Service as “subtropical” duty due to its summer heat and humidity, the city’s spring is a beautiful celebration of the flowers and trees and parks strewn amongst the official buildings and stately houses, its temperature moderate and pleasant.
It is a city of facades, Washington, D.C. For behind the marble columns of the Capitol Building, behind the grey doors of the ugly Executive Building growing from the White House like some Victorian tumor, behind the military-drab walls of the Pentagon, secrets and whispers and subterfuges susurrate unheard beneath the press releases and official reports. Power moves here like invisible currents beneath a seemingly tranquil river.
Here, the democratic power of the citizens of the United States of America is legally exercised by duly elected representatives, and officials and their appointees, executive, legislative and judicial.
The power of groups, clatches, and cliques, old and new, are struggling for true control of the country, perhaps of the entire world.
And should the truth ever be unearthed, the secrets revealed, the very fabric of the civilized world of mankind would fracture.
As it happened on that mid-April day, the cherry blossoms were just making their appearance, justifying the Sunday parade that would soon celebrate their arrival. A cold and wet March had given way to a tranquil, sunny April.
The two men who entered Dominique’s Restaurant on Pennsylvania Avenue in Northwest Washington, D.C., at 12:10 in the afternoon looked like a pair of the brokers of power in the nation’s capital. From all appearances, they seemed to be K-Street lawyers, out for a typical power lunch. They wore tasteful Brooks Brothers grey pin-striped suits, red ties and spit-shined black shoes. The taller one was clearly the older, grey brushing the sides of his razor-cut hair, and a spider web of wrinkles just beginning to show below his eyes. The younger looked to be newly graduated from law school, a sparkle to his eye, an eagerness to his smile, as he opened the glass door of the posh establishment for his companion. Yes, here was the prototypical canny senior partner it seemed of X, Y, Z, and Associates, squiring the cub counselor, showing him the ropes of legal schmoozing territory.
This was exactly the impression the men wished to create. A kind of Gentleman’s Quarterly camouflage. For these men were not lawyers.
They were brokers of a different kind of power that had nothing to do with legality.
The glass door closed behind them, muffling the roar and horn honks of the traffic outside. Soft strains of Chopin’s Preludes played from masked speakers; the piano gently dominated the blur of luncheon conversation, the clink of glass, the clatter of cutlery. The older man took a moment to let his eyes adjust from the sunny-day dazzle of Washington in spring, then he casually surveyed the discreetly lit dining room, filled with the scent of lilies and French cooking. It took him a few moments, and the maître d’ had already approached them and inquired if they had reservations, before he found his quarry.
“Sir, might we be seated over in that corner there, near where that gentleman and the young woman are sitting? I like the feel of that area. Not too close to them, but in the general area.”
The younger man pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and tucked it into the maître d’s pudgy palm. “For your trouble.”
The fortyish man in the tuxedo smiled. “Of course. This way, please.”
They were placed at a small table beside a potted palm tree. The older man directed his companion to sit in the chair that had a view of the two diners, while he chose the spot in the shadows, near the palm fronds. He placed the Gucci leather briefcase he was carrying upright on the floor beside him, and took the proffered menus from the maître d’.
“That is Dr. Everett Scarborough, “ the greying man told his associate in a low voice. “Our mark, if you will.”
The younger man turned his blonde head a moment, and studied the man called Scarborough for a few seconds. “Central was correct. He definitely has a certain charisma. Observe how he charms the young woman.”
“Look away,” instructed the older man, opening his plush and outsized blue menu. “Listen for a time. Absorb.”
The two men studied their menus in silence, listening to the conversation taking place just yards away from them.
“Another thing I’m sure our readers would like to know,” said the young woman, a petite brunette with long slim legs and an overbite, dressed in a pale blue business suit. “Don’t you think that there’s at least a possibility that we are being visited by aliens from another planet? This is a pretty large universe, after all, and the odds would seem to dictate that if there’s intelligent life on the planet earth, there’s bound to be lots elsewhere.”
“Intelligent life on the planet earth?” said Scarborough brightly. “That’s news.”
The woman chirped with laughter. “Please, Dr. Scarborough. The magazine that’s commissioned me to interview you is perky and upbeat. Let’s not be too cynical.”
“Ms. Ennis, you haven’t met the whackos that I’ve met. In this field of endeavor they literally crawl from the walls!” Dr. Everett Scarborough was a dark, glibly handsome man, slender and fit, with a keen cast of awareness to his hazel eyes. He wore a dark blue blazer, a white shirt, red-striped tie, and dark wool slacks. He had the easygoing air of a professional entertainer, not the aloof introspection one might expect from a scientist of his caliber. On his wrist was a Rolex watch, which he studiously ignored, keeping his attention focused fully on the young journalist before him.
“Please, Dr. Scarborough, call me Kate,” said the woman with a sexy chuckle in her voice.
“Only if you call me Everett, my dear.” The doctor paused to clear his throat. Even this sound had the tone of authority, as though an announcement of great import were about to be intoned. “Make sure your Sony’s on. I’m about to present you with a sparkling and brilliant answer that may well sound like a monologue. You may break it up with appropriate questions if you like, and then maybe you can tell me something about yourself!”
“The tape recorder’s rolling, Everett, and I’m afraid I’m married.” The light tone of flirtation remained in her voice, however.
“But of course you are, my dear. All truly delightful and beautiful women are.”
The woman blushed prettily and allowed Scarborough to continue.
“Yes, of course. Back to the interview,” he said, his fork playing amongst the vegetables in his Niçoise salad. “You have a point, Kate. Statistically, life should exist elsewhere in the universe, even in this galaxy. I won’t bore your readers with the scientific details, but scientists are quite aware of this—hence, legitimate programs such as SETI: Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence—utilizing radio-telescopes to sweep the skies not only to map the radiation emitted by the stars, but also to pick up signals of civilization, signs of life. We’ve also been broadcasting ourselves, as well as launching our own testament of civilization, the Pioneer Mission, replete with pictures of our species and the music of Chuck Berry. But then perhaps you should talk to such luminaries as Carl Sagan on that—he’s so much more eloquent than I on that subject.
“Alas, I concern myself not with the expansion of human knowledge, but the correction of human knowledge. Civilizations have always had their mythologies. I suppose the general population is entitled to thrill to stories of flying saucers, of visits from extraterrestrials bearing crystals and news of peace, or perhaps just channeling their good vibrations across the dimensions. Or even, God forbid, visitors’ morbid abductions and laboratory experiments upon human beings. But when a goodly percentage of our citizens actually believe that this is the truth—well, when it’s not the truth, it’s necessary for someone to stand up and make a few announcements. Necessary for the successful practice and understanding of science amongst the populace.
“All of my books, all of my lectures, all of my appearances on television, are for a common goal: to battle the insidious upsurge of pseudoscience and falsehood. Our civilization has its problems, certainly, and industrial and scientific progress has had its backlashes—but the backbone of human hope, I believe, is the practice of scientific principles. We must base our knowledge of the universe on empirical facts ... that is, everything must be proven. What many call the New Age, is, I believe, actually more of a return to the Dark Ages. And yet those I have sworn to oppose—the UFO-ologists spouting nonsense so fluently—claim to present factual evidence. As I see it, it is my task to explore this evidence logically and intelligently, and show it for the flimflam and fuzzy thinking it truly is.
“In my new book, Above Us Only Sky, I not only address UFO sightings and theories case by case, but I also discuss my own investigations. Including my investigations from when I was on the Air Force’s Project Blue Book study back in the late sixties. I make the point there—and emphasize it here—that science is a tool that has been developed by mankind. We are not naturally inclined to analyze things by the scientific method. This explains, I think, our tendency to be fooled. It is my job to remind people—goodness knows, from time to time I have to remind myself—that the scientific method, based on the sound and functional rules of logic, is to be used as a tool. It is here for our benefit, that our race can grow intellectually and spiritually.
“To get back to your initial question: No. I do not believe that earth has been visited by creatures from another planet, or that it is currently being visited. Of all the thousands of sightings and experiences that have been investigated, none have been proven to be the result of extraterrestrial visitation by the tenets of the scientific method.
“Now, as to what these sightings actually comprise—well, that’s an entirely different kettle of aliens!”
At the table of the two suited men, the waiter arrived to take the guests’ orders. The younger man ordered a simple coq au vin, while his companion requested the special of the day, sea bass au Provencal. When wine was offered, both men declined, asking instead for fresh-squeezed orange juice.
When the waiter left, the younger man listened to a few more sentences flowing eloquently from the table only eight yards distant, and then turned to his companion.
“He is a proud man. I sense a great deal of self-confidence. He clearly enjoys his—work.” The younger man’s accent was almost Midwestern in its flatness, although each word was clearly pronounced, and with excellent diction. The other’s accent was mid-Atlantic ... American, with a touch of high British, and perhaps a trace of something vaguely Germanic.
“Yes,” said the older, smiling for the first time. “In his calling, he needs such. For a debunker—a negative profession that tends to earn much social enmity, and tends to attract sour, negative personalities—he enjoys much popularity. His books sell well, and he receives large sums on the lecture circuit. He is often invited on local as well as national talk shows, along with the usual UFO-ologists. He takes great pleasure in having been a chief antagonist of the late J. Allen Hyenk, and regularly locks horns with such luminaries as Stanton Friedman, Whitley Strieber, Maximillian Shroeder and Jascque Valle.”
“Jascque Valle?”
“Yes. The Francois Truffault character from Close Encounters of the Third Kind. You are an excellent partner, smart and skilled—but you have much to learn in the UFO field. In the coming months, you will learn much indeed, I think. Now, let us eavesdrop a little longer. This is vital for your imminent mission.”
The interview at the other table had proceeded apace, with Dr. Everett Scarborough expounding at length on his factually based opinions, totally unaware that the two men sitting past the screen and the potted plant were listening carefully to him. He fielded Kate Ennis’s questions with expertise and good humor, taking the occasional opportunity to flirt. He seemed particularly concerned with the importance of the American public’s attitude toward UFOs.
“You know, I read somewhere that a poll claims over 50 percent of the American public believe that extraterrestrials are buzzing over their housetops. Just as many believe that there’s some sort of government conspiracy to keep this knowledge from the public! You remember when Ronald Reagan made those hypothetical comments concerning possibilities of aggressive intrusion of starships from another planet?”
“Oh, certainly. That certainly made for good happy hour conversation at The Front Page,” said Kate Ennis, referring to a press hangout on Dupont Circle. “An alien attack would bring all the countries of the world—including the Soviet Union and the United States—together, and make us realize that what we all share is our humanity.”
“An innocent enough observation, if quite a bit fantastic–well, the UFOols ... my abbreviation for UFO-ologists, Kate ... well, they absolutely pounced on that one. ‘The President is almost admitting that he knows there are aliens visiting Earth!’ they cried. ‘There’s been a huge cover-up for years! We’ve been right all along!’ “
Scarborough tapped his head. “The mind is a complex thing, Kate. It is like a film projector. Most of these deluded people simply do not realize that what they are experiencing is merely a superimposition of their own self-produced movie from Ludicrous Productions.”
“But people do see things in the sky!” said Kate Ennis. “My brother-in-law saw some kind of hovering light up near Westchester, Maryland.”
“Of course there are things in the sky. I’m not saying there aren’t UFOs. But we forget too soon that UFOs are Unidentified Flying Objects—not spinning disks stocked with bug-eyed monsters. Most UFOs thoroughly investigated become IFOs—that is, Identified Flying Objects. They’re usually weather balloons, or aircraft or clouds or lots of other normal things like bright stars and planets, warped and twisted by atmospheric effects. What we see, Kate, are not things, but the reflection and refraction of light from things. And our atmosphere—particularly with present-day pollution of various chemicals—is a veritable funhouse mirror show! This is what most people see, and their imaginations run wild. But even wilder run the paranoias of the whacko UFOols who interpret the sightings, and have created a pseudoscience: a folly that will be laughed at by our ancestors for centuries to come, much as we laugh at the phrenologist doctors who believed that a man’s intelligence could be interpreted by the number of bumps on his head!”
The interviewer laughed, and Dr. Everett Scarborough smiled smugly as he lifted a tinkling ice-water glass to his lips.
They paid their check, and agreed to continue their conversation at the Devonshire Bar down the street, over drinks.
They took absolutely no notice of the two men who had been listening to their conversation as they left the restaurant.
At the table of the eavesdroppers, lunch arrived.
When the waiter left, the younger man looked over his steaming, fragrant coq au vin and said, “What a persuasive speaker. There is more there, though—I sense the emanations of his power and ability. I can understand now his importance. I look forward to this assignment.”
His companion nodded. “Yes. The next few months are of vital importance to our mission, and Dr. Everett Scarborough plays a key role.” He lifted his briefcase to his lap, dialed a combination, and opened it. From within, soft multicolored lights winked, as though a small Christmas tree were secreted inside. The man took out a manila folder and handed it to his protégé, shutting the case and placing it back beside his chair. “You’ll find the preliminary information needed for your duty inside.”
The younger man opened the folder, keeping its contents screened by his head and chest.
The first item in the folder was a picture of Dr. Everett Scarborough, followed by sheets of information concerning him.
“Yes,” said the greying man, a frown playing on his thin, sensitive lips. “And the next few weeks will be a time of danger and trauma and fear for Dr. Everett Scarborough. Few men have the mental stamina to bear up to what he will soon go through without a psychological collapse. That is, if he survives at all.”
The next item was a picture of a blonde woman— young, smiling, eyes bright and full of life.
“And that,” said the older man, as though reading his colleague’s mind. “is Dr. Everett Scarborough’s daughter and only child, Diane. Diane Scarborough is the most important person in Scarborough’s life.”
The younger man glanced over the computer printout following the picture. “Yes. Her mother is dead ... A physical and intellectual resemblance ... I believe that we might term this young woman the doctor’s Achilles heel.”
“Yes,” said the other, taking up his fork to address his meal. “After so many years of dormancy, so many years of subtlety, the project is finally entering a dangerous period of potential violence ... perhaps even of cataclysm. And Dr. Everett Scarborough is a man very much in the middle of it all.”
“And if it doesn’t work,” said the other in a monotone, “that is why I have been trained as I have. I understand now.”
“Do you still accept?”
“I have no choice. I am devoted to the Cause. If Dr. Everett Scarborough veers from this purpose, I shall terminate him.”
The older man plucked the eyeball from the whole sea bass and regarded it placidly for a moment as it dangled from the tine of his fork. “And his daughter?”
“And his daughter.”