The Planck Factor

Chapter 32

Jessica Evans

I stopped reading, leaned back in my chair and sighed. If I couldn't sleep, I was going to put all this nervous energy to good use.

Unfortunately, this exercise had provided no ready answers to my situation. I rose and checked the drawers of a nightstand, where I found a pen and a hotel pad. Scribbling a note, I tore the page off, folded it, and tucked it in my jeans pocket. Doodling did nothing to relieve the stress. My obligations threatened to overwhelm me.

I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to tune the thoughts out. Focus on anything else. Exhausted, I slouched in the chair, elbows perched on the armrests. I closed my eyes and tried to clear my mind.

I must have drifted off because I was transported back to the university campus in Boulder. Fred and I were walking toward a large brick building, fronted with a line of trees. We were speaking of inconsequential things. Fred was smiling. As we approached the big brick building, a man emerged and moved toward us. As he grew closer, I recognized Selby. He waved and came up to talk to Fred.

The building. What was it? It had a name. It was . . .

I jerked awake. Early morning light leaked through the blinds. I blinked several times, trying to think.

"Ah . . . " It was all I could get out. Right on the tip of my tongue. Damn! What was the name?
A rap at the door, then Liz's voice. "Are you up, Jess?"

"Yeah, yeah," I assured her. "Give me just a moment."

I snapped my fingers, as if this rhythmic motion could conjure up memories. "I know it. I just know it. I know the place. What the hell is it?"

A big brick building. And Selby was a scientist. It started with a P. No, no, not a P.

Feeling frustrated, I tried not to think about it. It was the kind of information that would have to come to me in its own time.

I took a quick shower, pulled on my clothes and stumbled downstairs, drawn by the rich, intoxicating aroma of coffee and the unmistakable sizzle of bacon on a grill. Imagine my dismay when I saw I'd be sharing my breakfast with George Clooney and his twin sister.

I wandered into the breakfast nook where the twins sat at a table. George had just shoveled a forkful of eggs in his mouth when he saw me. His eyes lit up briefly in recognition, but quickly faded when I didn't return the enthusiasm.

"Good morning," he ventured.

"Yeah, hi." I nodded to George and his twin (whose name remained a mystery). Pulling out a chair, I sank into it and went into what was becoming a most familiar posture—holding my head in my hands.

"Are you okay?" I heard Liz ask from the kitchen, where I caught a glimpse of her working the pans on the stove with the speed of the Iron Chef.

"I couldn't sleep a wink." I yawned and rubbed my face to accentuate the foggy mental conditions I was working under.

"I'll have eggs and bacon ready in a second."

"Coffee." I dredged the word up and it hung in the air, like an unanswered question. I started to push myself up to retrieve a cup, only to feel a hand on my shoulder.

George was by my side with a steaming mug of the brew. He set it on the table before me. "Voila."

For a moment, I was lost for words, looking into those gentle brown eyes. Finally, foggy mind and all, I remembered my manners and said, "Thank you." Who would have thought I'd be thanking this man for anything?

As we ate, George went over the plan. They'd take me back to Liz's. After that, it was a simple matter of having their operative "drop the dime" on me, so to speak. By doing this, the operative should gain more of the group's respect and trust. And my capture could be made "swift and painless," as George had mentioned before.

After that, I needed to dig for whatever information I could. "Focus on Selby's role. Obviously, it was important. We need to know exactly what he was doing for them."

"If Selby was so important, then why did they kill Fred?" I asked. I was so fatigued, I thought I might be missing something.

"We think Fred might have stumbled across something bigger." George said. "He may have been doing research for your book but could have found out about other, bigger things."

I nodded and exhaled a shuddering sigh. "Great. I'm responsible for Fred's death. That's just what I need first thing in the morning."

George must have heard the despair in my voice. He leaned toward me. In a calm and deliberate tone, he said, "He chose to do what he did. He may have done it for you, but you didn't force him."

I shrugged my acquiescence. Sure. That's what I'll tell myself.

"How do you know Selby's the key?"

George started to speak, but nothing came out. "Sorry. Need to ..."

"Yes, I get it!" I snapped. "Need to know only. Gee, where have I heard that before?"

George stared at me, eyes intent with something approaching fear. My arms and neck broke out in gooseflesh.

"Believe me," he murmured. "You're better off not knowing the possibilities."

I inhaled a sharp breath, suddenly aware that I'd been holding it.

"Shouldn't I at least know who your operative is?" I asked. "So I can contact him."

"The operative will contact you," George said. His look told me this was a non-negotiable point. "You can pool your notes and get a sense of what these folks are really up to."

"Do you think they'll get suspicious and check me for a wire?" I asked.

"Ah." George held up a finger. "You're wearing jeans. This should fit."

He produced a leather belt that was something less than Gucci, but could pass for high quality.

"There's a tracking device and transmitter here." He showed me the unremarkable gray rectangle hidden behind the buckle. "All you do is pretend to adjust your belt and hit this tiny micro-switch." He pointed at a small protuberance in the metal. "Want to practice?"

I spent the next ten minutes, repeatedly adjusting the belt in a way that would hopefully look innocuous. The first couple of times seemed awkward, but with repetition, the move became easier.

Meanwhile, George tested out the receiver from upstairs. "Loud and clear!" he announced, each time we ran the test.

"Okay," he said, upon his return. He looked almost proud of me. "You're good. You'll be fine."

"I guess I'd make a pretty good spy, huh?"

George drew close and gave me a mock conspiratorial look. "They're called agents, Mrs. Lambert." He smiled to underscore the joke.

I knew the line. Walter Matthau said it in Charade, a movie about a widow who blunders into a situation involving stolen money and a pack of rogues who are convinced she has it. Matthau played a fake U.S. intelligence agent who claims he needs her help.

For the first time in I don't know how long, I laughed.