hanging blinds. The president was now sitting in a lounge chair grimacing at the hot dog that was sitting in a plate on his lap. Roland let the panel drop back and then walked to the center of the room. He raised the cell phone and dialed a preprogrammed number. The connection was quickly made.
'Clausins Department Store,' a female voice answered.
'Hi, can you connect me with accounting please, this is Roland Davis calling for his wife,' he said, not giving in to the temptation to look around to see if anyone was eavesdropping. The cameras were still on and very much active even though the president was currently outside.
'One moment please,' the voice said.
There was a series of clicks, and then just like any other holding signal, the gentle swell of a soft and melodic version of 'Eleanor Rigby' came into his right ear. The Muzak was a nice touch, he had to admit that.
'I'm sorry, Mr. Davis, she's in a sales meeting at the moment. Would you like to leave a message?'
As he listened to the coded phrase, he quickly reached to his side under his jacket and switched on the miniature digital recorder that he had just attached to his voice-activated radio. The same one he had just removed from the bottom of the coffee table. Then he quickly placed the cell phone by his hip and counted to two; he left it there another four seconds just to be sure. In that short time, a burst transmission was sent three times through the cell phone that was completely silent, or if anyone was listening, such as the NSA, they may have caught the soft sound of hissing like any other cell call. The coded recording of the president's meeting with the Event Group would be heard by others in a matter of minutes.
He quickly placed the phone to his ear and said, 'No thanks, I'll speak with her when she gets home.' He closed the cell phone and smiled. He would be paid a nice amount for his treachery.
The Genesis Group had been located on Seventh Avenue for the past sixty years and had passed that time as anonymously as any tree among many in the forest of buildings in one of the largest cities in the world. Few noticed that only a couple of people a day came and went from the nondescript sandstone building, but the ones that did were delivered to the address in limousines and wore clothing few outside of habitues of the largest boardrooms in the world could afford. The Sage Building was sixteen stories of boring turn-of-the-century architecture that drew absolutely no attention from anyone. The ornate interior decorations that occupied its dust-free corners had been purchased from all the best houses of Europe and Asia, but the most outstanding feature of the Sage Building was found five stories below the surface of the busy street.
The old man sat in a high-backed, electric wheelchair and looked into the glass enclosures before him. The three containers and the craft were there as they had always been. The information gained from them had long since been filed away, and the cabinets that held those files were being covered, he was sure, with thick layers of dust somewhere on the floor below him.
The largest display in the immense subbasement was to the right of the smaller enclosure containing the three aluminum bio-tanks. This viewing case was filled with the vehicle recovered from Roswell in 1947; its electronics and engines had long since been dismantled and analyzed many, many years ago at the then named Wright Field in Ohio. Little remained of the saucer after all the metallurgy that had been conducted on the debris. But what there was of it had been put back into some semblance of its original shape. The craft was almost unrecognizable as only the front and lower portions had been re-created. The upper dome was long gone, as the scientists and company engineers had had their way with it. He thought back through the years and remembered the excitement among his handpicked people as the technology had been retrieved.
The old man looked at the lower section, what the eggheads had confirmed had been the cargo hold of the vessel. This section was sparse in its reconstruction, but he could see the many metal containers that had been recovered and, once examined, placed back inside. The one in the center held his attention and had for the past sixty-odd years.
The large crate was sitting on the Plexiglas floor (that was a prop also, as the original floor had been used for testing as so much of the craft had). The contents, of course, had never been in his possession, but the mere thought of what it must have contained at one time was mind-boggling.
He closed his eyes as a small pain crossed from left to right across his chest. He knew it wasn't serious but he removed a small ornate Chinese case from his vest pocket nonetheless and quickly slipped a small white nitroglycerin tablet under his tongue. All the while his eyes never left the crate where spotlights illuminated it and it alone.
Again the old man reached out and this time removed a box from a small table beside his large wheelchair. He gently lifted the lid on the aluminum container and stared into the satin-lined interior. He lowered the box to his lap and used his index finger to touch the long and curved claw inside. It was fourteen inches in length and was serrated on both sides. The claw flared on the tip into what looked like two spoons that were arranged on either side just before the devastatingly sharp tip. The entire length curved like the prehistoric claws found in museums of animals long vanished from the surface of this world. He lovingly removed the claw from its box.
Whatever animal had used this weapon also used it as a digging instrument. The creature had obviously been a bur-rower of some sort, or so his expensive teams of scientists had said. The DNA recovered from the claw was so alien to our universe that the eggheads declared that the sample had to have been severely contaminated. Their analysis of the atomic structure of the sample told them it could never have survived anyplace with a gravitational field.
He placed the claw back into the box and closed the lid. It would go back into his safe upstairs where no one would ever lay hands on it. This was lus only personal claim to the crash at Roswell, and no one would take it from him. He set the box on the small table and looked at the enclosure next to the saucer. They were lined up side by side. Glass viewing plates had been placed in the upper half of the lids for viewing the corpses inside.
Every once in a while he wondered if the evidence of that night should be shared with the powers that be, but then he would catch himself. He knew that it was he and his company, now his son's, that were the only ones that would be strong enough to lead the way in combating the enemy they had discovered in the scrub brush in New Mexico. Or, if it was handled just right, they might acquire a new weapon for their own country if the chance arose. After all, if it was good enough for use as a weapon outside this world, it would sure enough be good for America.
'You know, Dad, if you continue to come down here into this cold and dank basement, I'm going to leave orders for it to be locked up.' The voice came from an open doorway at the top of the long theater-type aisle. 'It can't be good for you.'
The old man turned and faced the man who was backlit by the open door.
'It's all I have left, and now you threaten to deny me even that?' he responded, then turned back around.
The tall man let the door close behind him and made his way slowly down the descending aisle. The basement had been set up like a small theater, and the seats were strategically placed to view the craft. The old man's only son sat in the front row right behind the wheelchair his father had ordered placed on the small riser of a stage so he could see the artifacts better. He didn't say anything for a moment, just watched the old man and shook his head. He undid the waist button of his expensive suit jacket and waited. The younger man had jet-black hair that was combed straight back, and his features were just as his father's had been so long ago, aggressive and unyielding.
'I've received some information that may be of interest to you... and us,' he said as he crossed his right leg over the other. He brushed a nonexistent piece of lint from the fabric of his pants.
The old man didn't say anything. His gaze never wavered from the exhibits in front of him.
'The president's been having some very interesting meetings with your old friend Garrison Lee and Director
