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Jurassic Park: X-Factor (Chapter Eight -- Eichmann)
By drucifer67
Ian Malcolm took the steps of Henry Wu’s apartment two at a time, purely on impulse, like a kid. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something big was waiting—that Dr. Wu’s computer model had predicted something incredible, something unfathomable, something Grant and his team would need to know.
When he reached the apartment door, he was surprised to find it ajar. He knocked lightly and called out.
When no one answered, he pushed the door open slightly. “Hello?” he called again, but as the door swung open enough to offer a view of the room, he knew he was wasting his breath.
Dr. Wu’s apartment was a shambles. Papers cluttered his desk and the floor around it. An overturned chair lay on its side in the middle of the room.
“Dr. Wu? Henry?”
He stepped through the doorway and peered around the corner. The rest of the apartment appeared, at a glance, to be in order. Whatever had happened, it seemed to have only affected the area around the desk.
He retrieved his satellite phone from his coat pocket and had half-finished dialing Alan Grant’s number when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He spun on his heels, ready to lash out.
He was taken aback by the face before him. It was a small man, hardly over five feet tall, wearing wire-rimmed glasses. He was neatly dressed in a white shirt and tie. To complete the image, he smiled.
“Who are you? Where is Dr. Wu?”
“My name is Bradford. Dr. Wu is fine, he’s not here at the moment, but I assure you he’s—“
“Let me guess,” Malcolm interrupted, holding up one finger. “CIA? FBI? NSA?”
“Let’s not worry so much about who I work for,” Bradford said gently. “Let’s worry about the situation you’re getting yourself into.”
“Situation? Ah…what situation would that be?”
“You’re asking the wrong questions of the wrong people. Now, Dr. Wu violated protocol and released classified information, so he’s having a talk with my superiors. You, on the other hand, have received that information…among other things. I’d like for you to take a ride with me, Dr. Malcolm.”
“And, and, if I choose not to, ah, to take a ride, as you put it, what then?”
“I have the authority to arrest, Dr. Malcolm, but I prefer not to do so. It’s messy, and more important, it’s aggressive. I abhor aggression.”
“I would like, ah, I would like very much to contact my attorney,” Malcolm said, and hefted the satellite phone. He cleared the display and began to dial.
“Not advisable,” Bradford warned. “Please put down the phone, Dr. Malcolm.”
Malcolm hesitated, then resumed dialing.
The phone was slapped easily from his hand, and an unseen attacker seized his arm and thrust it upward behind him. In a flash he found himself in a position with his right hand held squarely between his shoulders and his chest pressed relentlessly against the wall.
“I asked you to stop,” Bradford said apologetically, then turned to the man holding Malcolm. “Easy, Renfro. He’s a scientist, for God’s sake.”
The door to Malcolm’s cell slid open noisily on its track. Two men stood in the doorway. The first wore a white shirt and tie; the other wore a bright yellow knit pullover.
“Come with us, please, Dr. Malcolm,” said the first. It sounded less like a request than an order.
Malcolm stood and followed the two men down a narrow corridor. The hallway was lined with doors, all bearing number plates but no names. A place of secrecy, he thought.
His captors stopped at the end of the corridor and motioned for him to wait. One of them rapped briskly on the door and stuck his head inside.
After a moment, he pushed the door back on its hinges and motioned for Malcolm to enter.
If the room had been intended to intimidate, the designers deserved an award. The desk was solid oak, easily eight feet wide, positioned squarely in the center of the room. The walls were paneled in real oak, as well, and the only decoration was a lithograph of some historical figure wearing a long beard and stovepipe hat. Not Abraham Lincoln, but Malcolm guessed the man in the picture hailed from the same period.
Behind the desk sat a bulky figure in a full suit and jacket. He held a burning cigarette between the first two fingers of his right hand. He regarded Ian through a haze of smoke, his eyes half-lidded. To Ian, he looked like some great predatory lizard.
“Dr. Malcolm.”
Ian said nothing.
“My name is Eichmann,” the man continued.
“Ah, Eichmann,” Ian interrupted. “So, so, where are, ah, Hess and Goebbels?”
One corner of Eichmann’s mouth turned up. Ian assumed this to be as close to a smile as the man could get. “The first fifty or so times I heard my name used as a Nazi reference, I laughed right out loud. Unfortunately, doctor, you get no points for originality.”
Malcolm nodded but said nothing.
“Dr. Malcolm, the reason you are here is that we are quite concerned about your connection with certain recent events involving classified information and a quarantined island.”
Malcolm remained silent.
“Believe me, Dr. Malcolm, no one is here to harm you. We only want to know what Dr. Wu divulged to you in his apartment yesterday, and to know what sort of business InGen—particularly Charles Wallace and his team—were up to in that beachfront warehouse.”
“My attorney will be happy to—“
“Your attorney will not be involved. In any way, shape, or form. You must understand, Dr. Malcolm, that you have been meddling in affairs which lie in the purview of the most powerful executive body in the world.”
“You mean Interpol?”
Eichmann reacted as if he had been slapped. “Interpol? Please. I said powerful, Doctor. Powerful enough to dictate terms to you. All terms.”
“Yeah, but you see, there’s this thing called the Bill of Rights---“
“Which no longer applies to you. At least not while you’re in this building.” Eichmann stood and leaned over the desk. “Isla Sorna is quarantined for a reason. All the information relating to that island is classified for a reason. Lives are at stake, Dr. Malcolm, and my immediate supervisor has empowered me to use any means necessary to keep the doors to that island closed. Forever.”
“So tell me, Mr., ah, Mr. Eichmann, was it your agency, or some other, that sent the research team to Isla Sorna?”
Eichmann said nothing; he only stared back at Ian.
“You mean to say that you know nothing of the research team that was abandoned there, ah, a few weeks ago?”
Eichmann sat down and laced his fingers together. “It’s unfortunate, what happened to those people. But it has nothing to do with our business here today.”
“What exactly did happen to those people?”
“I thought you knew,” Eichmann replied. “You seem to know so much about the research team, I assumed you had heard it all. They were killed, Dr. Malcolm. The entire team was lost.”
“Lost,” Malcolm echoed, stunned.
“That incident is what led to the new, more stringent quarantine measures. My supervisor felt that if a team of experts couldn’t survive there—“
“Your supervisor,” Malcolm interrupted. “You, you mention your supervisor, can I see him? Could I, ah, speak to your supervisor?”
“Sure,” Eichmann replied. The corner of his mouth lifted again in that weak excuse for a smile. “He has an office on Pennsylvania Avenue.”
1/14/2003 5:32:49 PM
(Updated: 1/15/2003 12:59:47 PM)
(Updated: 1/15/2003 3:46:38 PM)
(Updated: 2/11/2003 3:13:29 AM)
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