Fredric Stern - The Endorphin Conspiracy

“Sir, you did say 761, didn’t you?” asked Frank Leber, Lancaster’s bodyguard and personal chauffeur.

“What’s that, Frank? Yes, 761. You remember which house that is, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Lancaster. The brick colonial with the white columns, second from the end on Pendleton Street. The same house where the Russian Federal Security Service officer—Solenko was his name, I believe—was debriefed last year.”

“Your memory constantly amazes me, Frank, though he was a member of military intelligence—not FSS. That defection was quite a coup for our CIA Special Op boys—” Lancaster caught himself mid-sentence, wondering whether Frank Leber really needed to know so much. One slip of the tongue could blow open the entire project. Lancaster was close to his rightful position, the one he was destined to fulfill. He would guard his bits of knowledge like precious gems.

The limousine turned the corner and paused briefly at the outer gate to the residence, a pause long enough for the young marine guard to recognize the occupant of the back seat and wave the car through. Already parked in the circular drive of the sterile house on Pendleton Street were two generic government vehicles, blue Ford Explorers, standard issue of the federal government that year. Background on the streets of Washington with thousands of similar vehicles on the road at any one time. Contrary to common belief, not all upper level bureaucrats were chauffeured in stretch limos, a trapping of office the patrician deputy director demanded at all times.

Lancaster stepped from the car and bounded up the red brick path, Leber carrying his briefcase, and as always one step ahead, to the rear entrance of the old colonial. Lancaster adjusted his striped tie, pulled down his heavily starched white sleeves from inside his suit jacket. He entered the vestibule of the elegant structure and greeted the guard posted at the doorway. Lancaster and Frank exchanged a glance and a nod, the silent command, wait here until I finish. Lancaster grabbed his briefcase and crossed the main hallway to the meeting room. Sunlight streamed through the large stained glass window at the end of the corridor, projecting an iridescent kaleidoscope on the dark parquet floor beneath his feet. Resolutely, he entered the study.

“Hell of a spy, Phil,” blurted Joe Franklin, Deputy Director for Operations at the CIA, still staring out the window at the parked limo resting like a beached whale on the circular drive. “Remind me never to offer you a job in Ops.”

Lancaster despised being called Phil, a salutation used only by Joe and the President. He indulged Cabot by nature of their longstanding friendship and, more importantly, his position, but with no one else did he comfortably allow such a breach of familiarity, particularly with Joe Franklin, whom he considered a somewhat vulgar, though deceptively brilliant, tactician. Unfortunately, Franklin was a necessary ally, and the plan was all that truly mattered. With pursed lips and great restraint, Lancaster let it go. “Glad you could make it on such short notice, Joe.” He extended his hand. Always the diplomat. “Did the boss question where you were going?”

“He’s outta town at the moment. I’m covered, don’t worry about me. I drove myself here, let my driver have a couple of hours off to take care of paperwork, errands, all that. No one asked any questions.” Joe Franklin paused awaiting a response that never came. “This place brings back such warm memories. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“How’s that?” Lancaster asked with a hint of impatience.

“Remember 1962, the Company retreat for the Technical Services Staff? This was the place, wasn’t it?”

Lancaster shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “We were young and inexperienced then. I’m the first to acknowledge my mistakes.”

“Damn costly one, Phil,” Joe Franklin said, his thin lips forming a sneering grin. “Almost got you canned.”

Lancaster’s spine stiffened. He turned to the third member of the camarilla. Lancaster flashed a smile and offered a firm handshake to General Robert “Bulldog” Townsend, Deputy Director for National Intelligence. “Good to see you, General.”

Fifty-eight and a decorated veteran of G2—Army Intelligence—the nickname could not have caricatured the closely shorn, heavily jowled general any more precisely.

“What’s going on, Phillip?” Townsend asked in his usual cut-through-the-bullshit style. “We weren’t supposed to meet until next month, then I get this coded message via courier to meet you here in broad daylight, no less risking the entire project and my ass!”

Lancaster set his stainless steel briefcase down on the mahogany and leather desk, and using his personal electronic code, unlocked it. He removed three identical folders, each sealed with red tape and stamped, “Top Secret: Eyes Only,” with a Greek upper case sigma underneath. He handed each man his copy, cleared his throat.

“Gentlemen, a certain urgency has forced me to call this meeting sooner than we had planned. We’re in a code yellow situation.” Lancaster paused, more for dramatic effect than from a loss of words. “There’s been a breach of security. I have reason to believe the project has been infiltrated by the Inspector General’s Office.”

The words fell like laser-guided bombs, the ramifications of the potentially devastating information clear to the conspirators.

“Do we know who the agent is?” asked Franklin. “I can take care of that.”

“We have our suspicions, but nothing concrete yet,” Lancaster said.

“How about the Boss? Does Bennington know about the Project?” asked General Townsend, his eyes fearful.

“If he does, so does the President, and if he knew, we’d be history, especially with the goddamn lawyers running the country these days.”

“I thought the man was a good friend of yours, Phil?” prodded Franklin.

“He was,” Lancaster said. His voice was bitter.

“Is Papa Bear safe?” asked Townsend.

“He is, for now.”

“How’s he taking it?” asked Townsend.

“Okay, but with him, you never know. We need to watch him very carefully.”

“So, what’s the containment plan?” Franklin asked, impatiently chewing on the stem of his pipe.

Lancaster stared at each of the two men in turn, his lips forming a steely smile. “Open your files and read, gentlemen. We’ve waited too long to allow this project to fail again.”

Franklin glanced at the first page of the document and flashed a grin back at Lancaster. “I hate to admit it, but you’ll make a great director, Phil.”

“Doctor Pederson has been expecting you, Doctor Davis,” said Lynn Evers as she peered at Geoff over the top of her reading glasses. “You know how much Dr. Pederson dislikes waiting.”

Geoff glanced at his watch. Two fifty-nine p.m. Good thing he was early.

Every department chairman had his enforcer, his hit man, or woman—usually it was a woman. Of late middle age, moderately overweight, humorless, Lynn Evers epitomized the role. The Terminator, the residents called her. She either loved you, which was rare, or hated you, and while she couldn’t directly affect your career, she could make life over a seven-year period pretty damn miserable. Somehow, Geoff had managed to sneak up on her good side, which was to say she acted resoundingly neutral toward him. Good thing. The past several years had been miserable enough.

Geoff answered with a smile and a nod, quashing a stinging retort. Mrs. Evers reached over to the phone panel with her right hand, depressed the intercom. “Dr. Pederson, Dr. Davis has finally arrived,” she said in a tone loud enough to be heard through Pederson’s office door and probably down the hall as well. A forced smile. “You may go in now.”