Chapter 25
The smell of mahogany and Old English furniture polish hung thick in the air. Ventilation had never been installed in Dr. Stephenson’s private office, just off the huge laboratory that housed the Rho Ship. He didn’t need it. He didn’t want it. The thick, old smell matched the dark, ceiling-to-floor mahogany of the bookcases. It matched the oversized mahogany desk, the mahogany captain's chair that had once seated Sir Francis Drake.
People were uncomfortable in Dr. Stephenson’s presence under the best of conditions, but here, in the heart of his lair, their discomfort became a physical thing. He hadn’t designed the room with that intention, merely selected furnishings and decor that felt right to him. The stifling effect it had on others he regarded as an unexpected and pleasurable side benefit.
The nerve of the man standing before his desk annoyed him to no end. Fred Smythe seemed completely oblivious to the oppressive atmosphere in the room and to Dr. Stephenson’s own overbearing personality. He just stood there patiently awaiting a response.
“No, Mr. Smythe, I will not return the airplane that your kids and the McFarland child made. It became classified the second it penetrated restricted airspace. I will not waste anyone’s time clearing its onboard memory just so your young hooligans can have it back.”
The deputy director moved over to retrieve the airplane from a closet in the far wall. It had a broken left wing but showed no other signs of damage.
“You know what I am going to do? I am going to put this right here on my memento shelf so that whenever I am tempted to relax my demanding nature, I can glance to my left and remind myself that security threats spring from everywhere, especially from the seemingly innocent. Now get out of my office and get back to work.”
With a curt nod of his head, Fred Smythe walked out of the deputy director's office, closing the door behind him.
Donald Stephenson leaned back in his chair and smiled. That felt really good. All in all, things were going very well.
Disposal of Abdul Aziz’s body had been completed in a manner that left no possibility that it would be found. It was too bad his agent wasn’t able to intercept the man before he had gained entrance to the Brownstein house. Once Aziz was already inside, it was too risky to attempt a rescue.
So he had opted, instead, to have his man wait until Aziz finished his work. After that, once the assassin was killed, everyone who might have overheard classified information would be dead. After listening to the Aziz digital recording, Stephenson was confident he had made the correct choice.
With that situation cleaned up, there was nothing to delay the release of cold fusion technology around the world. It was all so easy. Especially since, less than a hundred feet from where he now sat, on the short side of the L-shaped building, the second alien technology was well into its final round of prerelease testing. And thanks to a couple of unofficial volunteers, that testing had now extended beyond the laboratory confines.
As Donald Stephenson leaned all the way back in his chair, his fingers interlaced behind his head, the thinnest of smiles creased his lips.