Secret Passage Page 2

  “I don’t remember you,” Zac said. “But I get the impression you think we know each other. How did you put it? Oh, yeah. You’re the man who created me. Next thing I know, you’ll be telling me you’re my long-lost father or something.”

  The dark eyes held Zac’s gaze. “I’m not your father. But we are connected.”

  “How?”

  He didn’t answer immediately, but instead slid his glass across the counter for a refill. When Zac complied, the old man’s gaze turned enigmatic. “Shall I tell you about the woman?”

  Zac’s blood froze and, for a moment, he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even breathe. Then he said angrily, “What woman? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “The woman you dream about. She’s lovely, isn’t she? Ethereal. Ghostlike. Too beautiful to be real.”

  Enough, Zac thought. Von Meter wasn’t just creeping him out now. He was starting to scare him. And, apart from the nightmares, Zac didn’t scare easily. “How do you know about her?”

  The old man leaned across the bar. “I created her. I put her in your head. She was my gift to you.”

  “You created her, you created me. Who are you, God?”

  Von Meter merely smiled at Zac’s sarcasm and fished another card from his pocket. He laid it on the bar, faceup, and rose shakily to his feet. “Memories are a funny thing, Zac. In the right hands, they can be manipulated, suppressed, planted. How can you know what’s real? And do you really want to know?”

  “Look,” Zac said angrily. “I don’t know what kind of head games you’re trying to play here, but I want no part of it. You come in here again, I’ll throw you out. You understand?”

  “I understand everything. And soon you will, too.” With that, the old man shambled across the room to the front door and drew it open. Through the eddying snow, Zac caught a glimpse of the limo gliding to the curb, as if the driver had been summoned by a telepathic command. A moment later, they were gone.

  FOR THE REST OF THE EVENING, Zac tried to ignore the warning bells clanging inside his head, the gnawing sensation in his gut that told him disaster lurked around the corner. As he got ready to close up, he tried to convince himself that Von Meter was just some weird old guy getting off by messing with his head.

  But as the night wore on, so did Zac’s uneasiness.

  Locking up, he grabbed his coat, then paused on his way out as his gaze lit on the card still lying faceup on the bar. His first instinct was to toss it the way he had the other one, but, changing his mind, he grabbed it and stuffed it into his coat pocket as he headed out the door.

  The snow was coming down harder now. Shivering in his lightweight jacket, Zac paused in front of the tattoo parlor next door to watch. Even in the garish lights, the flakes were beautiful. White. Crystalline. Dreamlike. Their delicate beauty reminded him of something…someone…

  “I created her. I put her in your head. She was my gift to you.”

  Zac tried to conjure an image of the woman now, but suddenly she was more elusive than ever.

  “Memories are a funny thing, Zac. In the right hands, they can be manipulated, suppressed, planted. How can you know what’s real? And do you really want to know?”

  Ducking his head from the cold, Zac hurried down the street. The wind blowing off the Delaware River was brutal tonight, but luckily, he didn’t have far to go. The two-room flat he rented was just at the end of the street.

  He was halfway home, lost in thought, when a cab pulled to the curb beside him. As Zac strode past, he could see that the driver was alone in the car. He sat slumped in the seat, arms folded, as if waiting for a fare.

  But the streets were deserted.

  Except for Zac.

  His hands were in his pockets and he fingered the business card he’d stuffed in there earlier. He pulled it out now and gazed at the name and address under the streetlight.

  Backtracking down the sidewalk, he rapped his knuckles on the driver’s window. “Hey, you waiting for somebody?”

  The driver rolled down the glass. “Just you, buddy. Where you want to go?”

  “Chestnut Hill.” Zac gave the man the address, then asked about the fare. Whistling softly at the amount, he mentally counted the cash he had in his wallet. The trip would take about half of what he had on him—his life savings—but what the hell? Who needed to eat?

  Climbing into the back of the cab, Zac leaned his head against the shabby upholstery, enjoying the warmth from the heater. He must have dozed off because it seemed like only moments later that the driver was rousing him.

  “Hey, buddy, you awake back there?”

  Zac sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, I’m awake.” But he had the disconcerting notion that he had somehow been transported to a strange, new world. The neighborhood was one of those dreamy, Christmas-card-looking places made even more surreal by the swirling snow.

  “Pretty swanky address, if you don’t mind my saying so,” the driver observed.

  Yeah, Zac thought. And why do I have the feeling I’m about to fall down a rabbit hole?

  He paid the man, then got out and stood for a moment, gazing around. Von Meter’s place was a three-story redbrick town house segregated from the street by an ornate wrought-iron fence. The gate had been left ajar, as if in anticipation of Zac’s arrival.

  He stepped into the courtyard, a frozen wonderland with icicles dripping from a fountain and stone statuary cloaked in snow. If possible the wind was harsher here than on the waterfront, and Zac hurried up the cobblestone walkway to ring the front bell. A uniformed maid promptly answered the door. “Yes?”

  “My name is Zac Riley. I’m here to see Dr. Von Meter.”

  He wouldn’t have been surprised if the young woman had turned him away, but instead she smiled and curtsied and beckoned him inside the warm house. “Please come in, Mr. Riley. Dr. Von Meter is expecting you.”

  “He is?”

  “Why, yes, of course. May I take your coat?”

  “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.”