Leon that the man was a CIA field operative, and not just an analyst. They spoke for only a few minutes, since it was getting late.
Leon went through his nightly bathing and manicuring ritual and sipped a glass of warmed brandy before crawling into bed around two in the morning. He set the alarm for seven, and lay awake for several minutes thinking about Eric Price, his words, expressions, stillness of his posture, and the focus of his eyes. It was vaguely like being in the presence of a predatory cat, he thought, not a man of science and mathematics. The real man was not well hidden, not from the view of a professional, and Leon Newell was a professional. He could swish with the best salon dandies, offer the limp hand to ladies and talk to them like a sister, but he’d killed seven times in the service of his country and also to meet his own agendas. And in just an hour, Price had been able to get a glimpse of what lay beneath the surface of the man he was supposed to trust. That made him insightful, and potentially dangerous, a condition that could be tolerated only to a certain point before Leon might be called upon to neutralize him.
The warm brandy took effect, and Leon gradually drifted off into a light sleep, a quiet place between wakefulness and dreams. Leon rarely slept deeply. It was a result of his training, and years spent in situations where a moment of careless preoccupation could result in death. He rested quietly, was not oblivious to sounds inside and outside the house, or the beating of his own heart. He was not oblivious to the texture of his silken sheets, or the lingering scents of lavender and fried meat in the air.
Hovering above the abyss of dreams, Leon first noticed a sweet odor, something familiar, like myrrh. His head began to swirl gently, a peaceful descent to a place dark yet safe, the place where his true self, his higher self, dwelt in contemplative solitude. He met himself there, his naked body glistening gold, sitting in lotus position, hands out from his sides, palms upwards. He opened his eyes, and they were black, and he smiled to himself.
“Welcome,” he said to himself. “I believe you have a truth to tell me. You may do it here safely, for only the one of us is here.”
“And what is that truth?” asked Leon.
“There is a new person in your life, and you have deep reservations about your association with him. You must bring these feelings forward and look at them with a quiet mind. They may be real, or an illusion.”
The black eyes blinked once. Leon felt peace.
“I have judged by instinct based on past experience. The man is more than what he says. He is a killer. He can be dangerous to the movement if he discovers what it really is.”
“Then you must watch him closely, and share with us what you learn, and I will guide you along the proper course. I will speak to the angels, and they to me, and the higher self of the one whom you speak of will also be consulted. Together we will choose the correct path. Together, we are in harmony with The All.”
Leon felt a kind of euphoria, an uplifting, and the golden man faded from view. The sweet scent returned, and he felt a cool breeze on his face, arms and chest that brought him near a waking state. He opened his eyes. The room was in deep gloom, but the silhouettes of tall figures surrounded his bed. One leaned over close enough for Leon to see a glow of reflected light in two large eyes, and the man’s voice was barely a whisper.
“Sleep now, friend, and return to the golden one, for it’s he who will guide you. We will be watching.”
A faint hiss, a burst of sweet odor, and Leon drifted away, thinking, these people are friends, and they have come to me before. They ask questions, and I must answer them, but always it’s things I’ve talked about with Colonel Davis. Why don’t they just ask him?
He awoke refreshed in the morning, and remembered nothing that had happened after Eric Price had left him the previous night.
CHAPTER FIVE
AGENDAS
The meeting room was one level down from the surface, and had a high ceiling. Six men sat around a large oaken table in dim red light coming from panels above them. They were cloaked and hooded for anonymity and wore earphones connected to a translator module in the center of the table. Two others were not present, but participated via closed circuit television; a camera and video monitor were mounted at one end of the table where the others could see everyone. Heat flowed into the room from floor grates, and a humidifier sprayed a fine mist from one corner of the room. This was in answer to the requests of two of the council members who were suffering uncomfortable skin conditions aggravated by the Arizona heat.
“All are present, so let’s begin,” said Mister Brown, the chairman. “Mister White will read the minutes of the previous meeting.”
The man called Mister White, also a Green, like his chairman, read the minutes, pausing occasionally for the translator to catch up in transmitting his words in four different languages for the council members.”
“Are there any corrections or additions?”
There were none.
“Under new business, I have an announcement. A new analyst has arrived to participate in Shooting Star. There’s some disagreement among our American colleagues as to what agency he works for and why he’s here. If you check your files you’ll see he’s a top program and technology analyst, involved most recently with the Ju-67 lifter package, which surfaced in Sophia. Excellent credentials, and he’s worked for several agencies, including the military, a situation I personally do not find unusual, but the Americans are suffering from their usual paranoia.”
“Well, there have been problems here,” said Mister White. “I don’t think they’re accidents, and neither do you. I can assure all of you the Green Party is not involved with the problem, but it will participate in the solution. I know we have differing views on how and when the drive technology should be revealed, but we all agreed it would eventually be done, and sabotage, either overt or covert, will not be tolerated.”
“Are you pointing a finger at anyone in particular?” asked Mister Jones.
“Are you speaking for the Reds today?” asked Mister White.
“I am.”
“The Americans have a saying that if the shoe fits you wear it, so I suppose—”
“Nobody is being accused, Mister Jones,” said the chairman. “You must admit, however, that any saboteur involved can only be a member of the project and have access to internal correspondence.”
“Witness the damage done to the field generator. Only this Council and Colonel Davis knew when that was coming in,” said White.
“So maybe you should accuse Davis of something besides his usual corruption.”
“It would hardly be in his best interests to damage the technology his corporate masters would like to get their hands on. Whatever Davis does, he can always be diverted by money. He’s not the problem here. Someone wants the project slowed, or stopped. It’s logical to suspect those who have vocally opposed those goals after agreeing to our initial plan.”
“It was your plan,” said Jones.
“But you agreed to it. You all did,” said Mister Brown. “If you’ve changed your minds, then you should disassociate yourselves from the project. We can proceed without you.”
There was a pause, then, “I doubt you’re prepared to pay the political price for that kind of arrogance,”
