The Pandora Directive

Chapter Fifteen

“It’s an unfortunate turn of events.”

I sat quietly, smoking and watching Fitzpatrick’s furrowed face. He looked off, someplace far away, and played absently with a ring on his right hand. “Extremely unfortunate.”

I flicked an ash off my Cubana and surveyed Fitzpatrick’s hotel suite. I’d heard that the Savoy was deluxe, but seeing was believing.

Fitzpatrick swung his gaze around to me and mustered a meagre smile. “Well, I suppose that brings our partnership to an end. What do I owe you?”

“I think you owe me some details.”

The old man kept his eyes on me, but turned his head slightly and threw me a quizzical look. “Details?”

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “Look, Mr Fitzpatrick, Malloy was on to something big. And he was gonna spill the details to me just before someone popped in and turned him into corkboard. Not only am I interested in finding out what Malloy was going to tell me, but I also feel like I owe it to him to find out who killed him and why.”

I leaned back in my chair and prepared to take another puff. “I’m going to stay on the case for a while longer, and, to be honest, I think you can give me some helpful information.”

I seemed to have taken Fitzpatrick by surprise. His eyes were fixed on me. “There is no reason for you to get involved. As you saw, just being around Malloy was perilous. Being entangled in his business would undoubtedly prove to be just as treacherous. A word of advice, Mr Murphy: take the money and walk away.”

He was sincere, but it was a wasted effort.

“It’s too late. I’m already involved.”

“And why is that?”

“Well, counting last night, I’ve had three little incidents in the past week that could have left me collecting dust on a cold slab.” I detected a hint of bitterness in my own voice. Talking about my own death always made me testy. “It may be my quintessential male ‘screw it or kill it’ mentality, but I have a hard time turning the other cheek.”

“If you’re looking for revenge, I think it likely that you’ll end up on that cold slab after all.”

“It’s not revenge. It’s the… thrill of the hunt.”

“You located Malloy. The hunt is over. Let me pay you, then go back to your life.”

“I’m not talking about Malloy. I’m talking about the boxes.”

Fitzpatrick was taken aback. It wasn’t clear whether he was startled or just confused. I wanted to know which one it was. He turned his face away and examined the dark corners of the room. Like someone breaking a new year’s resolution, he reached for his ring and began fiddling with it again. After some time, he moved his eyes back to me, then to the glass sitting on the arm rest of my chair. “More bourbon?”

I nodded and handed him the empty glass. Fitzpatrick rose slowly and walked to the table on the far side of the room. He spoke over his shoulder. “If you insist on becoming involved, I must be certain that you can be trusted and relied upon. If my suspicions are confirmed, we will be up against formidable opposition.”

Fitzpatrick turned to face me and replaced the stopper in the bourbon decanter. “This is not something you can dabble in. If you want him, I must insist on complete commitment.”

“I’ve never had trouble committing — except, of course, to women. Count me in, one hundred per cent.”

He returned with a healthy serving of straight bourbon. “I’ll warn you at the outset: I don’t know more than I’ve told you about Malloy’s recent activities. I knew him quite well many years ago, but as I told you, we didn’t stay in touch. I received an anonymous message some time ago, which led me to believe that he might be in danger.”

“You don’t know who would have sent the message?”

Fitzpatrick shrugged. My bet was that he had a few guesses. “It may have been Malloy himself, though I don’t know how he would have located me. But that’s beside the point. All I have to go on is a vague theory as to why Malloy’s life was in jeopardy, based on what I knew about his work years ago.”

“Malloy told me a little about his work of the Blueprint project.”

“Good. That will save some explaining, though you may then already know a lot of what I know.”

“Well, go ahead. I’ll stop you if I’ve heard anything before.”

He took a sip of tea and cleared his throat. “I met Thomas Malloy in China, during the winter of 2002. He was doing translation work for the Government. I happened to be living in Peking at the time. The two of us became friends. After several years, Malloy began to confide in me about some of his confidential interests, especially Project Blueprint. Did he mention his work with the alien symbols?”

I nodded. “I think that some of the stuff I recovered is related to his research with the symbols.”

“I’m eager to see what you found.” Fitzpatrick’s eyes gleamed.

“We’ll examine that as soon as possible. At any rate, Malloy showed me some of the work he’d done. He felt confident that he’d deciphered some of the hieroglyphics, but he was still far from a significant breakthrough. What little he believed he had translated, however, was fascinating. His interpretation of one section seemed to refer to another spacecraft. Whether the second ship had come before the one in the Roswell crash, or was to follow, Malloy didn’t know.”

“Pardon my ignorance, but that doesn’t sound like the kind of information that would get someone killed.”

Fitzpatrick considered for a moment. “He was at the very beginning of the deciphering process. Who knows what else he might have discovered. Maybe the notebooks will help us follow his trail. Now, I’ve told you what I know. Tell me what you’ve learned. You mentioned something about a box.”

Starting from the beginning, I explained what happened with Emily Sue Patterson, then my run in with Jackson Cross. At the mention of the NSA, a concerned look passed over Fitzpatrick’s face. I then told him about finding the box. For the time being, I left out Regan Madsen and the fact that she said she had a box like the one I’d recovered. I finished the story and drained the bourbon.

“I assume you don’t have the box with you.”

“No, I don’t have it with me. It’s hidden away someplace safe.”

“Tell me more about it. What does it look like?” he asked eagerly.

“It’s fairly small, about the size of a recipe box, if you know what I mean. The strangest thing is that it doesn’t open — at least I can’t see how to open it.”

Fitzpatrick nodded, as if he expected to hear this.

“Are there any markings on the exterior?”

“Just some scratches by someone trying to get it open.”

Fitzpatrick picked up my empty glass and went to the well for the third time. “I think I’ve seen the box you described. In China, Malloy had four or five such boxes. They were unique versions of the traditional Chinese puzzle box. Malloy’s said he had been made specifically. They were made out of material recovered at Roswell, which he’d made off with after Project Blueprint was disbanded. At the time, the boxes were simply a novelty. Malloy kept spare change and other trifles in them. In fact, I think he actually kept recipes in one of them. He was quite an excellent cook.”

“So you know how to open them?”

Fitzpatrick returned with more bourbon. “No. Malloy never told me, and it never occurred to me to ask.”

I thought back to my conversation with Jackson Cross. It seemed like it had been a week since I been taken to the NSA office, but I realised suddenly that it had been less than two days. I checked my watch — the thirty-six hours Cross had given me were almost up. I knew that I couldn’t give up the box, but I was also concerned with my future. I decided to lay out my cards and let Fitzpatrick help me figure out my best hand.

“The NSA gave me an ultimatum to give them the box within thirty-six hours. That was about thirty-three hours ago.”

“You’re surely not thinking of turning it over?”

I shook my head. “No, but I don’t know what I should do. If I run out on the NSA, they’re not going to rest until I’m slowly, painfully dead. I’d just as soon avoid that.”

Fitzpatrick seemed lost in four for some time. “How would you feel about giving me the box?”

“I’m not sure. Can I trust you?” the biggest sucker question in the world. Asked a million times, always answered the same way.

“Yes, you can. I have as much money and other luxuries as I could ever want. My motives here centre solely on following the trail my old friend pointed me toward. I don’t know where it will lead, but I intend to reach the end. If you join me, I believe that will improve my odds of success.” With that little pep talk, he’d convinced me to trust him. I was going to give him the box. Now I just had to find it.