The Athena Project

CHAPTER 32

PREMANTURA

ISTRIAN PENINSULA

CROATIA

The former monastery had also been a winery before falling on hard times and going out of business. It was composed of a cluster of buildings set atop a hill and surrounded by a high wall. From both a functional and a security standpoint it was exceptional. All of the staff had a place to sleep, there was a communal dining area, a space devoted solely to the project itself, offices, and a large central court for their vehicles and the mobile generators they had brought in. In a word, it was perfect, and that was why Armen Abressian had chosen it.

The extra cover he received from Viktor Mikhailov had proven extremely valuable as well. When Mikhailov had inquired what Abressian was doing at the old monastery, Armen had avoided answering. When the Russian pushed him, he answered in such a way as to leave the ex-KGB man relatively certain Abressian was refining heroin.

Mikhailov didn’t really care what Abressian was doing-at least he hadn’t until four of his girls had gone missing. Armen had paid handsomely for the Russian’s “protection” and his agreement not to stick his nose into what he was doing. That arrangement had worked out quite well. In fact, it very likely would have continued working had Cahill not vanished those four women.

Abressian shook his head. They were so close to achieving success. Cahill of all people should have been much more careful. He had suddenly made things incredibly difficult for all of them. Armen didn’t relish having to deal with Mikhailov. But before he did that, he needed to speak to Cahill. Sanders informed him that despite the hour, he was still working. Abressian wondered if it might be some sort of penance as he headed off to confront him.

The only indoor space large enough to house the project was the monastery’s former church, also known as a katholikon. And no matter how many times Armen visited, he was still struck by what a powerful image it presented. It was as if the church itself had been built to house the magnificent device, which now fit so perfectly where one altar had once stood-science overtaking and replacing religion.

Cahill was alone. Armen found him at a work station near the enormous Kammler Device. He had on his usual “business suit” of faded blue jeans, a T-shirt and Chukka boots. Abressian could make out the Maori tribal tattoo on his upper arm. They were the only ones there.

“George,” Abressian said as he approached. “You and I need to talk.”

Cahill was studying some waveform pattern on one of the multiple computer screens on the desk. “Armen,” he replied with his Australian twang as he turned. “It’s about time you got back here.”

He appeared to be in one of his moods. His hair was unkempt, his eyes wide and bloodshot. There were several crushed, empty energy drink cans on the floor that had missed landing in the trash receptacle. Abressian wondered how long he had been up this time. “Let’s sit down, George,” he offered.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” stated Cahill. “You come into my lab and pretend to give me orders? Who do you think you are?”

All of the personality traits had been there from the beginning-his glib, superficial charm and grandiose sense of self, his shallow emotions and constant need for stimulation, his promiscuity and impulsiveness, his contempt for those who sought to understand him, the rapidity with which he blamed others for his own failings; the way he tried to manipulate and con those around him-too often you didn’t know you had been taken for a ride until it was too late.

“George,” said Abressian. “There are four women missing from the village.”

“No,” he replied. “There are four whores missing from the village. And I already talked to Sanders about this.”

“Well, now you and I are talking about it.”

Cahill slammed his fist on the desk. “You need to make up your damn mind, Armen! Are we talking whores, or are we talking about the greatest scientific advancement mankind has ever seen? Let’s talk about that, huh? Let’s talk about power. Let’s talk about power like no one has seen since they split the atom!”

“Tell me what happened to the women, George.”

“You mean the whores.”

“I mean the women. Four human beings. What happened to them?” asked Abressian.

Cahill flipped open the minifridge next to the desk and pulled out another energy drink.

“Stop drinking those.”

Cahill mocked him. “Stop drinking those,” he repeated and then opened the tab and took a long swallow. Afterward he said, “You don’t tell me what to do, Armen.”

“Did you push those women through the device, George?”

The scientist turned and looked at the Engeltor. He threw his arms out to his sides, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes as if he were communing with something. Just as quickly as the odd behavior had started, it stopped.

Cahill snapped his head forward and said with a laugh, “Armen, my good man. I didn’t push anyone. They all walked through! They completely did it on their own.”

My God, thought Abressian. “You made them do it, George. Whether you threatened them or you lied; somehow you manipulated them. They didn’t do it knowingly.”

“Poh-tay-toe, Poh-tat-toe,” he intoned. “For Christ’s sake, Armen. You certainly know how to ruin a celebration, don’t you?”

The older man was getting extremely angry, but he refused to allow it to show. “You have no idea the trouble you have caused.”

The physicist shrugged and took another sip of his drink. “You’re the one who wanted to make an omelet. It seems a bit hypocritical to be crying over the broken eggs.”

“You have endangered the welfare of the project.”

“I’m a scientist. An incredibly brilliant scientist. You need to accept that,” said Cahill.

Sociopath or not, Abressian couldn’t believe the man’s arrogance. “You still haven’t gotten the machine to work, so don’t tell me how brilliant you are.”

The scientist threw his half-empty energy drink toward the trash can and started laughing. Bringing his hands together in an overexaggerated clap he yelled, “Boom!”

Abressian stared at him. Cahill had fallen into the abyss of madness.

“Say it again!” yelled Cahill, a smile growing on his face from ear to ear. “Say it again!”

Abressian watched as the man put his hands up in front of his chest and began a little dance in front of his computer screens.

“Tell me how I haven’t gotten the machine to work,” Cahill repeated. “Go ahead. Tell me.”

“George?” Abressian said gently. “Do you have news for me?”

“I certainly do,” said the scientist as he did a turn and then smiled at his employer. “You’re an asshole.”

The older man smiled back at him. “It works, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t want to talk about that. Let’s talk about how stupid I am.”

“You’re not stupid, George,” said Abressian.

Cahill was serious again and stopped dancing. “You’re damn right I’m not,” he replied.

“How? What changed?”

“I had the balls to break a couple of eggs.”

“I don’t understand,” said Abressian.

“The Engeltor. It needed a sacrifice. A blood sacrifice,” replied Cahill.

Armen stared at him.

The physicist stared right back. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you? I can see it in your beautifully bearded face.”

Abressian sensed Cahill was ramping back up again, his mood elevating.

“We’re only missing about a hundred pages out of the damn owner’s manual for this thing and that got me thinking while you were gone.”

“Thinking about what?” asked Armen.

“What if there was a way,” said Cahill, as he punched his fist into his palm, “to pop the clutch on this thing? I mean seriously, Armen. We’re so close. I was ready to whack the thing with a hammer and give it a couple rounds of percussive maintenance. But then I thought, what’s the one thing we haven’t tried to send through?”

“People,” replied Abressian as he felt a chill run down his spine.

The physicist nodded. “Guess what happened after that?”

Armen shook his head.

“The bombs started going through.”

Abressian’s mask slipped and he was suddenly visibly upset. “How many did you send?”

“All three of them.”

The older man clenched his fists and fought back the urge to beat Cahill to death. “Those were the only devices we had remaining,” he said. “They are now half a world away. We can’t simply ask our colleagues at the Andaman site to pop them in the mail and send them back to us.”

“What do they cost you?” Cahill asked nonchalantly. “A thousand bucks apiece? Buy some more from wherever you got the others.”

Abressian wanted to lash out at him, but the scientist had no idea what had happened to his connection for those devices. “We don’t simply run down to the store and pick those things up, George.”

“Well, that’s your problem, not mine. I’ve got your machine working again. It seems Andaman is receiving at a 66 percent success rate. That means we only lost one out of the three devices we sent through.”

“I know what a 66 percent success rate means. What happened to the stray device?”

Cahill shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“No hypothesis? No guesses?”

“Who cares?”

“I care, George,” replied Abressian. “It’s sloppy.”

“You and your friends are about to begin wielding one of the most powerful weapons the world has ever seen. I wouldn’t care so much about how sloppy it is. You should be quite pleased with a 66 percent success rate. Two out of three ain’t bad. Consider the one you lost as the cost of doing business.”

The man had made a reasonable point and Abressian nodded.

“Now,” said Cahill. “All I need are a few new bombs and the address to which you want them sent. After that, history will take care of the rest.”