likely super-conducting materials aren’t linear but are skewed by the specific gravity and mass of the sample being tested. Therefore…”
“Therefore, their molecular stasis points don’t necessarily follow the degree intervals.”
“Exactly. Believe it or not, those scientists would never consider that and whole reams of data was discarded as being junk or polluted.”
“So are you saying super-conducting got the Professor killed?”
Peter paused before speaking again. “Bill, did you ever hear of the Jesus Factor?”
“What is it, some bible-thumping fad?”
“No. But if you’ve never heard of it, and you’re the one in the White House, then I am really fucked out on a limb.”
“What are you talking about?”
Peter looked at Bill. Twice he started to form a sentence and then stopped. “I did some preliminary work for the professor on instantaneous values of Epsilon H33,” he said at last. “He told me to destroy my notes and then they killed….” Peter pulled up short.
“What?” Bill’s interest was thoroughly piqued.
“Nothing, Bill. I don’t think we should talk any longer.”
“Why?”
“I should go.”
“Peter, you are starting to weird me out here?”
“Thanks for the time, kid. I’ll see ya round.” With that, Peter trudged down the steps of the Memorial.
CHAPTER TEN
There were 14 messages on Bill’s personal cell phone as he glanced at it sitting in the back seat of his government supplied Town Car. His government cell would have rung, or Bill’s driver, Secret Service Agent Brent Moskowitz, would have been beeped to retrieve him from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial if anything of national consequence had occurred. He scanned the messages quickly and decided to ring back Janice.
“Hey, Bill. How’s your day going?”
“I got to tell ya, a really weird thing happened. I met up with an old friend… acquaintance…from the neighborhood and the guy goes on and on and tells me a story that sounds like a science fiction author wrote it. Then, for no reason, he suddenly runs away!”
“Schizophrenia?”
“Maybe, but it was more like he suddenly didn’t trust me.”
“What triggered this?”
“I dunno, one minute we’re talking… he’s talking, I’m listening, then he asks me a question. Then he freaks.”
“What was the question?”
“He asked me if I ever heard of the Jesus Factor.”
“You mean ‘W W J D?’”
“What’s that?”
“What would Jesus do?”
“Oh right. No, I don’t think they call that the Jesus Factor. Besides, I asked him if it was a religious thing. That’s when he freaked.
“Maybe he’s in a fundamentalist cult. And you were suddenly an outsider.”
“Maybe, but he’s a real science nut. Religion has to have faith. I don’t see him as a holy roller.”
“Then back to my initial instinct: schizophrenia.”
“You’re probably right. What a waste of time. Anyway, how’s your day going?”
“I got the board to approve my program.”
“Aw, honey that’s great! Congratulations.”
“You have no idea what I’m talking about do you?”
Bill cringed. “Sure, the program thing. It’s great news.”
“Nice try, buster. I’ll fill you in tonight. Gotta run; love ya.”
“Love you too babe. Later.”
As the car found it’s way back to the White House, Bill’s head was reeling with all that he had absorbed from his three-hour “
Cheryl intercepted him as he approached his office. “You have staff at four and I need you to review the agenda for next week’s nanotechnology summit. You also need to…”
Bill was not intending to say the next thing he said, but something inside him compelled him to utter, “Cheryl, get Susan Clark, the Ambassador to the U.N., on the phone. Then get me a research person. Maybe that new kid, Harry.”
“Horace. I’ll take him off of filing. When do you want to see him?”
“From before I asked you.” He handed her his cell phone. “Go through my messages and cull and delegate them out, unless one of them needs me.”
“Got it.”
Once behind his desk, Bill went through his red-lined folder. Cheryl put all the documents that needed immediate attention or signatures in a recycled manila folder with the words, “Operation Quarterback” on the front, a memento from a previous adventure through which Cheryl had started working for Bill. The load was light and in three minutes, the folder was wedged between the tape dispenser and the stapler; the parking spot that told Cheryl that Bill had reviewed the contents. In that time, Horace came in. Bill gave him the name of Peter’s flying saucer book and many of the other details of the whacked out story Remo told him.
His next call was to Joey Palumbo.
“Got a minute?”
“Sure; what’s up, Bill?” the former FBI agent said.
“Can you look into the death of a scientist by the name of Ensiling? I’ll have Cheryl get all the info I have over to you.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Probably nothing. Hey, you remember Pete Remo?”
“Yeah, the only guy who was more of a square than you! Geez, I haven’t heard that name in years.”
“Me neither, till this morning when I met with him. He started out asking me to look into this professor’s demise.”
“How did it end up?”
“Weird… unsettling.”
“Bill, the guy Peter was always a weirdo.”
“Yeah, I know, Joe, but he was socially weird. His science and his brain were working on all eight cylinders.”
“Maybe he’s self-medicating.”
“Yeah… I thought of that. But even though his story was out there, it was very cogent.”
“You tell a lie enough…”
“…and you eventually start believing it. Maybe that’s it, but check into this just to make sure, will ya?”
“Once again, what are we looking for?”
“Just see if his death was kosher or not.”
“Where did he die?”
“Vienna, last week.”
“I’ll reach out through Interpol and a few other sources.”
“Thanks, Joey. Get back to me as soon as you know anything.”
