The Doomsday Conspiracy   ::   Sheldon Sidney

”

General Hilliard held out a thick, shiny black plastic card with a white stripe on it. “Here’s a credit card that …”

“I doubt if I’ll need that, General. The cash will be enough, and I have an ONI credit card.”

“Take it.”

“Very well.” Robert examined the card. It was drawn on a bank he had never heard of. At the bottom of the card was a telephone number. “There’s no name on the card,” Robert said.

“It’s the equivalent of a blank cheque. It requires no identification. Just have them call the telephone number on the card. It’s very important that you keep it with you at all times.”

“Right.”

“And Commander?”

“Sir?”

“You must find those witnesses. Every one of them. I’ll inform the Director that you have started the assignment.”

The meeting was over.

Harrison Keller walked Robert to the outer office. A uniformed marine was seated there. He rose as the two men came in.

“This is Captain Dougherty. He’ll take you to the airport. Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

The two men shook hands. Keller turned and walked back into General Hilliard’s office.

“Are you ready, Commander?” Captain Dougherty asked.

“Yes.” But ready for what? He had handled difficult intelligence assignments in the past, but never anything as crazy as this. He was expected to track down an unknown number of unknown witnesses from unknown countries. What are the odds against that? Robert wondered. I feel like the White Queen in Through the Looking-glass. “Why sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.” Well, this was all six of them.

“I have orders to take you directly to your apartment and then to Andrews Air Force Base,” Captain Dougherty said. “There’s a plane waiting to …”

Robert shook his head. “I have to make a stop at my office first.”

Dougherty hesitated. “Very well. I’ll go there with you and wait for you.”

It was as though they didn’t trust him out of their sight. Because he knew that a weather balloon had crashed? It made no sense. He surrendered his badge at the reception desk, and walked outside, into the chill breaking dawn. His car was gone. In its place was a stretch limousine.

“Your car will be taken care of, Commander,” Captain Dougherty informed him. “We’ll ride in this.”

There was a high-handedness about all this that Robert found vaguely disturbing.

“Fine,” he said.

And they were on their way to the offices of Naval Intelligence. The pale morning sun was disappearing behind rain clouds. It was going to be a miserable day. In more ways than one, Robert thought.

Ottawa, Canada, 2400 Hours

His code name was Janus. He was addressing the twelve men in the heavily guarded room of a military compound.

“As you have all been informed, Operation Doomsday has been activated. There are a number of witnesses who must be found as quickly and as quietly as possible. We are not able to attempt to track them down through regular security channels because of the danger of a leak.”

“Who are we using?” The Russian. Huge. Short-tempered.

“His name is Commander Robert Bellamy.”

“How was he selected?” The German. Aristocratic. Ruthless.

“The Commander was chosen after a thorough computer search of the files of the CIA, FBI, and a half dozen other security agencies.”

“Please, may I inquire what are his qualifications?” The Japanese. Polite. Sly.

“Commander Bellamy is an experienced field officer who speaks six languages fluently and has an exemplary record. Again and again he has proved himself to be very resourceful. He has no living relatives.”

“Is he aware of the urgency of this?” The Englishman. Snobbish. Dangerous.

“He is. We have every expectation that he will be able to locate all the witnesses very quickly.”

“Does he understand the purpose of his mission?” The Frenchman. Argumentative. Stubborn.

“No.”

“And when he has found the witnesses?” The Chinese. Clever. Patient.

“He will be suitably rewarded.”

The headquarters of the Office of Naval Intelligence occupies the entire fifth floor of the sprawling Pentagon, an enclave in the middle of the largest office building in the world, with seventeen miles of corridors, and twenty-nine thousand military and civilian employees.

The interior of the Office of Naval Intelligence reflects its seagoing inheritance. The desks and file cabinets are either olive green, from the World War II era, or battleship grey, from the Vietnam era. The walls and ceilings are painted a buff or cream colour. In the beginning, Robert had been put off by the spartan decor, but he had long since grown accustomed to it.

Now, as he walked into the building and approached the reception desk, the familiar guard at the desk said, “Good morning, Commander. May I see your pass?”

Robert had been working here for seven years, but the ritual never changed. He dutifully displayed his pass.

“Thank you, Commander.”

On his way to his office, Robert thought about Captain Dougherty, waiting for him in the parking lot at the River Entrance. Waiting to escort him to the plane that would fly him to Switzerland to begin an impossible hunt.

When Robert reached his office, his secretary, Barbara, was already there.

“Good morning, Commander. The Acting Director would like to see you in his office.”

“He can wait. Get me Admiral Whittaker, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

A minute later Robert was speaking with the Admiral.

“I presume you have finished your meeting, Robert?”

“A few minutes ago.”

“How did it go?”

“It was … interesting. Are you free to join me for breakfast, Admiral?” He tried to keep his voice casual.

There was no hesitation. “Yes. Shall we meet there?”

“Fine. I’ll leave a visitor’s pass for you.”

“Very well. I’ll see you in an hour.”

Robert replaced the receiver and thought, It’s ironic that I have to leave a visitor’s pass for the Admiral. A few years ago he was the fair-haired boy here, in charge of Naval Intelligence. How must he feel?

Robert buzzed his secretary on the intercom.

“Yes, Commander?”

“I’m expecting Admiral Whittaker. Arrange a pass for him.”

“I’ll take care of it right away.”

It was time to report to the Acting Director. Dustin fucking Thornton.

Dustin (Dusty) Thornton, Acting Director of the Office of Naval Intelligence, had won his fame as one of the greatest athletes ever to come out of Annapolis. Thornton owed his present exalted position to a football game. An Army-Navy game, to be precise.