Ben Bova - The Multiple Man

I was just coming to the conclusion that it was all a false alarm, when a lanky young man with longish sandy hair and a sad hound’s face pulled up the stool next to mine.

“Mr. Albano,” he said, without even looking at me.

“That’s my name. What’s yours?”

“Hank Solomon.”

“Hank …Solomon?”

“Don’t especially care for people callin’ me Sol. Or Henry.” His voice had the dry drawl of the Southwest: Texas or Oklahoma.

The bartender was dressed like an old-time tar, with striped T-shirt and buttoned pants. Solomon ordered a straight bourbon and said nothing until the computer-operated mixing machine produced his drink and the bartender placed it in front of him.

“Good t’meet yew, Mr. Albano,” said Hank Solomon.

“Thanks.” I raised my glass to him.

“McMurtrie said yew were one of th’ good people around th’ President.”

I felt my eyebrows hike up. “You knew McMurtrie?”

“Worked for him. I was one o’ his outside boys. Naw, yew never saw me. I was always up ahead, makin’ sure the President’s path was cleared.”

Inodded.

“Got a problem,” he said. He was talking to me, but his eyes kept searching the room, going from the fairly well lit area of the bar out toward the dimmer sections of the restaurant and back again, ceaselessly.

“Something I can help you with?”

“Hope so.” Solomon took a small, flat black box from his inside jacket pocket. It nestled easily in the palm of his hand. “Put this in yore shirt pocket and press this li’l button on top.”

I did. Nothing happened.

Solomon glanced around the bar again, then added, “Now reach down alongside th’ button and feel th’ catch…” It was like a tiny metal hook. I could feel it with my fingernail. “Pull it loose and unreel th’ earphone.”

Now I got it. I gripped the tiny earphone between my forefinger and thumb and brought it up to my ear. It was a plug that fitted into my ear snugly.

“…until further evidence is accumulated. End of report.” It was McMurtrie’s rumbling voice. I looked at Solomon; he sipped his bourbon and kept scanning the area. What’s he looking for? I knew, in the abstract. But maybe he knew specifically what he was afraid of. McMurtrie’s voice, a tiny pale ghost of his real voice, continued whispering in my ear. He gave the day and date and said:

“Progress report number six. Subject: investigation of possible Presidential assassination plot. Trip to North Lake Research Laboratories. Visited Dr. Alfonso Peña, head of lab. Also spoke with Dr. Peter Thornton and Dr. Morris Malachi. Was accompanied by Dr. Adrian Klienerman.

“Peña reports both Presidential doubles died of cause unknown. No violence. No poison. Klienerman checked Peña’s test data but was not allowed to check the actual corpses. Nasty argument between Peña and Klienerman. Peña passed out. Thornton claimed it was heart trouble. He suggested that we get permission to let Klienerman do his own tests from General Halliday, who is the majority owner of North Lake Labs. Have booked flight to Aspen for Klienerman and myself to see the General.”

My eyes focused on Solomon, the bar, the shadowy flickering underwater lighting beyond. But before I could say anything, McMurtrie’s voice came on again.

“Additional note. Klienerman says duplicates could not possibly be so exactly similar to the President without, quote, biogenetic mapping, unquote. Then he said something about a band of brothers, or brotherhood. He was dozing as he said this and is sleeping now, as we fly to Aspen. More later. Action item: get full background on Peña and North Lake Labs.”

The spool stopped with a sharp click. I pulled the plug out of my ear and let the wire whiz back into the tape player in my shirt pocket. Solomon had almost finished his drink. “That spool was mailed to the office from the Aspen airport, when Mac first landed there, on his way to see the General. He addressed it to himself. Standard operatin’ procedure.”

I grabbed at my drink, suddenly wishing it were real rum. It took only one swallow to finish it.

“So what’s your problem?” I asked as I put the glass back on the bar.

Solomon nodded to the bartender and kept silent until the refills were in front of us. “My problem’s kinda simple. And kinda complicated. Nobody in the office is followin’ up on Mac’s reports.”

“What?”

“I got th’ tapes and papers and his… well, what they call his ‘effects.’ I got assigned to sortin’ ’em out and sendin’ his personal stuff back to his wife… er, widow.”

“I never knew McMurtrie was married.”

“Got two boys. One in college, th’ other in the Aerospace Force. His wife lives in California.”

“Hell,” I said.

“Anyways, these progress reports on Mac’s incomplete investigation sounded damned important to me. I took ’em to our section chief. He comes back a day later and says t’ forgit ’em. Bein’ handled higher up.”

“By whom?”

“By nobody, it turns out. Took me a coupla days of sniffin’ around to find out. All Mac’s reports were just tucked away in a file, locked up tight. And everybody in th’ office is stonewallin’ it. Mac’s dead an’ nobody’s movin’ an inch toward finishin’ the investigation he’s been workin’ on.”

“They wouldn’t do that without orders from higher up,” I said.

“Yeah. I figured. But when this here tape arrived in th’ mail yesterday, I got aholt of it before anybody else. Just luck. I was in the office early, when the first mail delivery come in.”

“And the good old fucking mail service took a damned week to deliver his tape,” I said.

Solomon broke into a lopsided grin. “Yeah.”

“So you kept the tape?”

“Hell, no! Everything’s logged in and double-checked in the office. I jest borrowed it for a few minutes and made my own copy of it… before anybody else got into the office. I let the section chief have the tape soon’s he showed up… right ’bout time for the mornin’ coffee break.”

“And what was his reaction?” I asked.

“Combination scared and sore. I made sure he played the original tape while I was in the office. I volunteered t’ take on Mac’s action items an’ check out that doctor and his lab. Chief said no. Buck it upstairs.”

“And you think it’s being buried.”

His smile disappeared. “I know it’s buried. This investigation’s as dead as Mac, far’s the office’s concerned. That’s why I looked you up. Mac tole me once you could be trusted.”

“I’m just a glorified public relations man…”

“Yew work right for th’ President,” Solomon said. “I don’t know anybody in th’ Government’s any higher… that I can trust.”

I caught myself in the middle of taking a very deep breath, the kind that steadies your pulse rate. Or so they say.

“Okay,” I said. “I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do about this, but I’ll do something. It sure looks as if Klienerman was killed because he was catching onto something important.”

“And Mac along with him.”

“Right.” I could feel my jaw clenching. “I don’t suppose anybody’s actually checked out this man Peña and the North Lake Labs.”

“Nope. But I can get that done.”

“Really? When I tried it—”

“Mac had a loua friends. In the Pentagon, too. We can find out what we have to know. Might take a few days, is all.”

“Good. Now, should I keep this tape or should you?”

“Me,” he said, holding out his hand. “They already know I’m sniffin’ around on this. Less they know about yew bein’ involved, better off we both’ll be.”

I handed the palm-sized black box back to him. “Hank… do you have any idea of who they are?”