Secret Passage

“No, I think I’ll keep it if you don’t mind.” Never knew when you might need to make a speedy exit, Zac decided, his gaze taking in the luxurious surroundings.

The foyer was large and spacious with an inlaid wood floor, a magnificent, curving staircase and a domed skylight from which one could watch the clouds by day and the stars by night. Tonight, however, the etched glass was banked with snow, giving Zac a touch of claustrophobia.

The maid led him down a dim hallway to a set of ornate wooden doors, which she drew open after a discreet knock. The room inside was richly furnished in leather and tapestries and floor-to-ceiling bookcases packed with gilded tomes. It smelled of cigar smoke and old secrets.

Von Meter stood at the window, staring out.

“Mr. Riley is here to see you,” the maid announced softly.

The old man didn’t say a word, but a brief nod of his head seemed communication enough for the maid. She motioned Zac inside, then backed out of the room. Only when he heard the doors close did Von Meter finally turn.

He looked different tonight. His hair was a dingy white, like day-old snow, and his face was even leaner than Zac remembered, the frail, taut skin appearing to have the suppleness of parchment.

“This is some place,” Zac said.

Von Meter smiled faintly. “It’s old and drafty, but it suits my needs.”

Something about the comment made Zac wonder if they’d had a similar conversation before. “It beats the dump I’m staying in now,” he said with a shrug.

“Perhaps.” The old man walked over to his desk and sat down, then gestured to a chair across from him. “But your apartment has its attractions, does it not? I’m referring to the young lady in 3C, of course.”

The muscles in Zac’s stomach tightened. “How do you know about her?”

“The two of you have become quite close in recent weeks. I’m afraid that has to end. You can’t afford the distraction.”

Zac leaped to his feet, the old man’s presumption making him suddenly furious. “What is this? How do you know about my personal life? How the hell do you know anything about me?”

Von Meter remained outwardly complacent. “Please try to calm yourself. Everything will be clear to you soon.”

He pressed a button on his desk, and, a moment later, the maid opened the door. “Yes?”

“Is Roth still here?”

“I believe he’s in the solarium, sir.”

“Would you ask him to come in?”

“Of course.”

A moment later, the door opened again, and a tall, well-dressed man with a lean, muscular build strode through. His hair, a strange silvery color, was a striking counterpoint to the black turtleneck he wore, but the most remarkable thing about his appearance was the color of his eyes—one blue, one green and both cold as ice.

As their gazes collided, a shiver went up Zac’s spine. He wasn’t one for making snap judgments, but he had an immediate aversion to the man. In spite of the expensive clothes and carefully styled hair, there was something…unseemly about his appearance. As if the man’s sinister nature lurked just beneath the surface, waiting to suck in the unsuspecting.

A nasty customer, Zac thought, and he’d met more than a few in his time.

As if reading his mind, the man smiled. “Well, well, well,” he said in a voice that might have belonged to the devil himself. It was smooth, oily, decadent. “The infamous Zac Riley.”

“You know me?” Zac said with a frown. If their paths had crossed, he was glad that memory hadn’t survived.

“Perhaps the explanations are best left to Dr. Von Meter,” the man suggested.

“Yes, perhaps they are,” Von Meter agreed. He turned back to Zac. “This is Roth Vogel, Zac. He’s here to assist in your briefing, but first, we need to get you settled. We have a room prepared for you upstairs. I’ll send someone to your apartment to pack up your things—”

“Like hell you will.” Zac shot to his feet. “I don’t know what kind of scam you’re trying to pull, old man, but I don’t want any part of it.”

He spun, but before he could cross the room, the door slammed shut, apparently of its own volition. He whipped around to find a gun pointed at his chest. His gaze lifted to Vogel’s and the man’s eyes gleamed in anticipation. Zac knew that look. He’d seen it before, on a man who’d tried to slit his throat in a dark alley one night for the twenty bucks he had in his wallet. Tried was the operative word.

“What the hell is this?” he asked through clenched teeth. “Some kind of shakedown? I hate to disappoint you, but I’ve got about ten bucks in my pocket. You think you can take it, have at it,” he challenged Vogel.

“Put that thing away,” Von Meter barked. “There is no need for violence.” When Vogel reluctantly complied, the old man said to Zac, “I apologize. You aren’t a prisoner here. You’re free to leave any time you wish.”

“In that case, hasta la vista.” He gave them both a quick salute.

A muscle twitched at the corner of Vogel’s left eye—the blue one—as if he was having a very hard time suppressing his temper. Or his trigger finger.

A nasty customer indeed, Zac thought as he strode through the doorway and down the hallway to the foyer, expecting to hear, at any moment, the sound of footsteps in hot pursuit. But no one followed him or tried to stop him as he drew open the front door and walked out.

Once on the frosty street, he hailed a taxi, climbed into the back seat, then, before they could drive off, he got out again. Ignoring the driver’s indignant curse, Zac returned to the house and rang the bell. The same maid answered the door, and this time Zac let her take his coat. When she showed him to the study, Von Meter was alone once more.

“Allow me to apologize again for Roth’s behavior.” He motioned Zac to a seat.

“What the hell was that all about?” Zac demanded.

Distaste flickered across Von Meter’s face. “You’re referring to the gun.”

“And the slamming door. How’d you manage that little trick?”

“It wasn’t a trick. Roth is a very gifted telekinetic.”

“A telekinetic, huh? And here I thought he was just your everyday asshole.”

“He is temperamental, I’ll grant you that. Impulsive. Insubordinate. Ambitious. A loose cannon, I believe is the term used these days.” Von Meter sighed. “But he has his uses.”

“Forget about Vogel,” Zac said bluntly. “What do you want from me?”

“I want to help you,” Von Meter replied. “You want to know about your past. I can supply the missing details. But first, I need to know what you do remember.”

“Why?”

“How would I know where to begin, otherwise?”

Zac supposed the explanation was logical enough, but he still didn’t trust the old man. “I don’t remember much,” he admitted reluctantly. “My parents died when I was just a kid. I was raised in a series of foster homes until I turned eighteen. After I left the system, I drifted for a while, then joined the navy. Eventually, I ended up working in the intelligence community before I was recruited into a classified special ops program, code name Phoenix.”

When he paused, Von Meter nodded encouragingly. “Please go on.”

“The training was conducted in a series of underground bunkers at the old Montauk Air Force Station on Long Island. I remember very little about my time there or the missions we carried out, but I do recall being on board a submarine at some point. There was an accident. Some kind of explosion. We crash-dove to the bottom of the North Atlantic where we were trapped for days. Most of the crew died. A hundred and something men. I think there were other survivors besides me, but I never saw them. I spent weeks in the hospital where I was subjected to long periods of isolation and rigorous debriefing sessions. After a while, I lost track of time and the details of the accident began to fade. Some days I had a hard time remembering my own name.” He paused as the feelings of loneliness and confusion washed over him once again. Then he shrugged them away. “That’s about it. I was later discharged from the navy.”

“They said you were mentally unfit to serve.”

Zac got up and walked over to the window to stare out at the snow. The discharge still rankled five years later.

Von Meter spoke from behind him. “You mentioned something about Project Phoenix. It was, and is, an operation much larger in scope than a special ops program.”

Zac turned from the window. Something the old man said rang a bell. “How so?”

“Project Phoenix is a privately funded, covert organization comprised of scientists, military personnel, and leaders from business and technology—some of the finest minds in the world. The advances we’ve made in psychotronics, telekinetic studies and interdimensional phasing, just to name a few, are far more vast and intricate than most people could even begin to imagine.”

Zac wondered if he was dealing with a lucid mind here. The things the old man spoke of were impossible. And yet…something inside him warned that Von Meter spoke the truth. And that truth was somehow directly related to Zac. That was why he was here.

He studied the old man for a moment, trying to gauge his sanity. “Even if what you say is true, what does any of that have to do with me?”

“The goal of Project Phoenix was to create an army of secret warriors—super soldiers if you will—with psionic abilities. Once their training was complete, their memories were erased and they were sent back home or back out into society until such time as they were needed. That’s why you’re here, Zac. You are being called back into service.”

“Wait a minute.” Zac’s pulse jumped in spite of himself. “Are you saying I’m one of these…super soldiers?” When the old man nodded, Zac laughed, but the sound seemed hollow even to him. “Obviously, you’ve got the wrong man, doc. If I had any special abilities, psionic or otherwise, I wouldn’t be working in a dump like Blue Monday’s. And I sure as hell wouldn’t be here.”

“But you do possess a special skill,” Von Meter assured him. “One that makes you uniquely qualified for the mission on which you are about to embark.”

“Mission? Uh, no. I don’t think so. Sorry, old man. I don’t take orders anymore, not from you or anyone else. And even if I did, you haven’t said one single thing to convince me you aren’t running some kind of con here. My guess is you need a patsy, but I’m not as desperate or as stupid as you seem to think. And, as far as this mission of yours is concerned, I’m not going anywhere but home.”

He started to rise, but Von Meter’s gruff voice halted him. “Wait. Just hear me out a moment longer. If you still want to leave after I’m finished, then you can do so with my blessing.”

Zac didn’t really care whether he had the old man’s blessing or not, but seeing as how he didn’t have anywhere else to go on a cold, blustery night in Philadelphia, he sat back down. If nothing else, Von Meter’s charade could get interesting.

“Have you ever heard of something called the Philadelphia Experiment?”

Zac nodded. “Yeah. It’s a bar on South Street.”

The old man waved an impatient hand. “I’m not talking about a bar. I’m talking about an event. The disappearance of a U.S. warship back in 1943.”

Zac eyed the old man with skepticism. “I know what you’re talking about. But the Philadelphia Experiment is a myth. An urban legend based on the navy’s experiments during the war with electromagnetic fields. Scientists were trying to find a way to make ships invisible to enemy mines by demagnetizing the hulls, but according to the legend, what they achieved instead was visual stealth. Optical invisibility. Whatever you want to call it. That sound about right?”

Von Meter nodded eagerly. “Yes, precisely. But what if I were to tell you that the Philadelphia Experiment is more than a legend?” He leaned forward, his eyes lit with an uncanny glow. “What if I were to tell you that the powerful magnetic fields created by the specially designed generators installed on that ship somehow ripped a hole in the space-time continuum? What if I were to tell you the ship didn’t become invisible? It entered another dimension. It traveled forward in time, and when it came back, it left something in its wake.”

Tingles stole up and down Zac’s spine as he gazed at Von Meter. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about a secret passage. A time tunnel, if you will. A wormhole that links the present to the past. To 1943 to be precise.” The old man’s smile deepened Zac’s chill. “We’ve found it, you see. We know the location of the wormhole, and we have every intention of sending someone through it. Someone who is uniquely qualified for such a mission. That someone…is you, Zac.”

Chapter Two

She dreamed that Adam was still alive. The vision seemed so real, it was as if that day in the park had never happened.

But even in her sleep, Camille knew it wasn’t real. Adam was dead, and no amount of wishful thinking was ever going to bring him back.

But his voice… She could still hear it in her sleep.

“Mom, can you really teach me how to play baseball?” he was asking her.

In her dream, Camille grinned down at him, her heart swelling with love. “You bet I can. I’ll teach you just like my mother taught me.”

“Why didn’t your dad teach you?”

“Because my dad died when I was little. You know that, Adam. We’ve talked about it before.”

“Did my dad die, too?” he asked solemnly. “Is that why he’s not here to play baseball with me?”

How was she supposed to answer that question, Camille wondered sadly, when the truth was something she still hadn’t come to terms with herself? Adam’s father wasn’t dead. He simply…didn’t remember them.

Luckily, the child suddenly became distracted by something else, and he let the matter drop. “Mom, why is that man watching us?”

Startled, she glanced up. “What man?”

“That man over there.” Adam was holding her hand, and his grasp tightened almost imperceptibly, as if he somehow sensed danger.

Camille followed her son’s gaze. About thirty feet from the path, a man stood in the shade of an elm tree. Sunglasses obscured his eyes, but she could tell that he was staring at them.

A chill ran up her spine. There was something…unnerving about the way he watched them. As if…he knew them.

Camille was certain she’d never seen him before. She would have remembered. He had a striking appearance, the kind you didn’t forget. Dressed all in black, he was tall and thin, with silvery-blond hair combed straight back from his face.

Camille shivered again. She and Adam had purposely drifted away from the more populated area of the park so that they would have plenty of room to play pitch without worrying about stray balls hitting toddlers. She suddenly found herself wishing they hadn’t wandered quite so far away from the swing sets, jungle gyms and mothers pushing babies in strollers.

“Adam, maybe we should go back—”

“No, Mom, please.” He squinted up at her. “You promised you’d teach me today. Can’t we just stay for a little while? Please? Pretty please?”

It wasn’t in her son’s nature to remain obstinate for long. If they left now, he’d soon get over his disappointment. He was an easygoing child. Loving and affectionate although, like his father, he had a bit of devilment lurking in those dark, soulful eyes. Eyes that could melt her heart with just once glance. And when he gave her that look—as he was now—she didn’t stand a chance.

“Okay, just a few pitches,” Camille relented, her gaze moving back to the stranger. Surely he meant them no harm. They were still within shouting distance of the playground, and they were visible from the street. It was broad daylight, a beautiful summer’s afternoon. What could possibly happen?

She spent a few minutes showing Adam how to hold the ball. “Your hands are too small now to grip across the seams, but we’ll work on that as you get older. Right now, just try to get the ball out on your fingertips. See? Like this.” She demonstrated the technique. “And keep your wrist loose and cocked back. That way you can use it as part of your throwing motion.”

After a few more minutes of instruction, she backed up and tossed Adam the ball. “Now, throw it to me, son. Just like I showed you.”

After a few tries, he was able to get the ball to her with some accuracy and catch it when she threw it back.

“I did it, Mom! Did you see me?” He jumped up and down in his excitement.

“Good job! I knew you’d be a natural!”

It was true. He’d inherited his father’s athletic prowess along with his dark good looks and innate charisma. Someday he’d be a real heartbreaker. Just like his father.

They played for several more minutes. Camille was just about to suggest they head back to the car when her last pitch got away from Adam. The sound of his laughter echoed back to her as he chased after the ball. She laughed, too, at first, enjoying the moment, but then suddenly her breath quickened in alarm.

Something was wrong.

The grass should have slowed the ball’s momentum, but instead it kept rolling and rolling, always just out of Adam’s reach. She heard him laugh again as he tried to chase it down.

She must have thrown the ball harder than she meant to. That had to be it….

“Adam! Wait! Let me get the ball. Adam!”

Out of the corner of her eye, Camille spotted the stranger again. He’d moved into the sun, and now she could see him more clearly. As she watched, he slowly reached up and removed his dark glasses. Camille gasped. There was something odd about his eyes….

A fist of terror closed around her heart. He meant to harm them. She knew that without a doubt. She had to get to Adam. She had to protect him….

But the harder she tried to catch him, the farther away he seemed.

He was almost to the street by now, still chasing the ball. Try as she might, she couldn’t reach him.

“Adam!” She screamed his name, but a sudden gust of wind tore it away. “Adam!”

The ball rolled into the middle of the street and stopped. Without hesitation, Adam darted after it. He was so focused on the ball that he didn’t see the blue sedan roaring down the street toward him….

CAMILLE AWAKENED with her dead son’s name on her lips and tears drying on her face. She thought at first the pounding in her head was the echo of her own heartbeat, but then she realized someone was banging on her front door.

Lifting her head, she squinted at the clock. Just after seven. Had she overslept?

Her gaze darted to the window where she could see the sun slipping below the edge of a distant ridge. She sank back in relief. It was evening, not morning. She must have dozed off while listening to the news. The radio was still on, and she could hear the transmission fading in and out. She reached over and snapped off the old Motorola, but it took a moment for the static to die away.

The pounding came again, more desperate this time, and someone shouted her name. She put a hand to her eyes, trying to wipe away the last of the sleep as she swung her legs to the floor. Running a hand through her messy hair, she got up and hurried to the front door.

The dream was still so fresh in her head that when she glanced through the sidelight and saw the little boy standing on her front porch, her initial instinct was to throw open the door and sweep him into her arms, even though she almost immediately recognized him as one of the Clutter children from down the road. He didn’t even resemble Adam. Her son had been dark haired while Billy was a freckle-faced redhead.

Camille drew back the door and scowled down at the child. “Billy? What’s all the commotion about? Is everything okay—”

He grabbed her hand and tugged. “You gotta come, Miss Camille. Davy says you gotta come right now—”

“Whoa, wait a minute. Come where?” Camille felt as if only half her pistons were firing while Billy operated at full throttle. She had a hard time keeping up.

“You gotta come to the mine!” His voice rose in agitation. “Davy says—”

“To the mine? You mean the old deserted coal mine up on the ridge? You boys didn’t go up there, did you? That place is dangerous—” Camille sank to her knees and gripped the boy’s shoulders. “Billy, tell me what happened. Is someone hurt?” When he nodded, her stomach lurched. “Who’s hurt? One of the twins? Donny?”

He shook his head, gulping in air as he tried to catch his breath. “No, not Donny. Not Davy, either. It’s a man. We found him in the mine. He’s croaked and everything, and Davy says he’s a German spy probably!”

Camille tried to keep her voice even, tried not to let her own panic show in her actions, but she saw Billy wince as her grip tightened on his arms. With an effort, she released him. “Are you sure he’s dead?”

The boy nodded vigorously. “Yes, ma’am, he’s real dead. Davy said to come get you on account of our pop’s not home and you’d know what to do.”

Camille wasn’t so sure about that. “Where is your father?”

“He’s at work. He won’t be home until real late probably.”

Daniel Clutter, a widower, was employed as an engineer at one of the city’s secret facilities, and his work kept him on the reservation for long, exhausting hours at a time. He’d recently hired a full-time housekeeper to watch the boys in his absence, but the woman had to be over sixty and was no match for a precocious seven-year-old, let alone his twelve-year-old twin brothers, who were almost always up to mischief. Davy, the self-appointed ringleader, was cunning and clever and utterly fearless. A dangerous combination, in Camille’s estimation.

And now it appeared that he’d led his brothers inside a deserted mine. He had no idea of the danger they could have encountered. A dead German spy was the least of it.

So what was she supposed to do? The cottage didn’t have a telephone and the road back to the mine was overgrown and impassable. She’d have to go on foot.

“Here’s what I want you to do,” she told the still-excited child. She put a hand beneath his chin. “Listen carefully. I want you to go straight home and tell Mrs. Fowler I’ve gone up on the ridge looking for the twins. I’ll bring them home as soon as I find them. Understand?”

The little boy swallowed. “Yes, ma’am, but Davy said I wasn’t to tell anybody but you. He said—”

“Never mind what your brother said.” Camille lowered her voice to a stern, no-nonsense tone, the kind she’d once used to let Adam know she meant business. “You do as I tell you and maybe, just maybe, I can keep you boys out of trouble.”

Camille turned him toward the front porch and gave him a swat on his behind. “Hurry, now. Tell Mrs. Fowler you’re both to stay put until you hear from me.”

As the boy shot across the front porch, Camille whirled. Hurrying through the silent house, she grabbed first-aid supplies from the bathroom and stuffed them into a bag, along with a flashlight and her .45. Two minutes later, she was out the door.

A path behind the cottage led into the woods, but the trail ended after a half mile or so and the terrain soon became rough and overgrown. Darkness was falling, too, but Camille didn’t turn on her flashlight. Batteries were hard to come by, and she’d learned to use them—and a lot of other things—sparingly. But in another few minutes, the last rays of the sunset would fade and the topography would become even more treacherous.

At least she knew the area. Camille had made it a priority to familiarize herself with every square inch of the surrounding countryside. She’d found all the hiding places and the discreet trails across the ridge that led straight to the city. From one of those hidden vantages, she’d memorized the rotation of the guards, the weaknesses in the city’s defenses, and she knew better than anyone how easily a spy or saboteur—or even an assassin—could slip in and out undetected.

Breathing heavily, she emerged into a clearing on the face of the ridge and immediately spotted one of the twins pacing in front of the old mine shaft. The entrance had been boarded up at one time, but some of the planks had been pried loose and the rest were broken. The fresh splintering of the wood suggested that someone had come in and out of the mine recently.