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THE QUEEN'S OWN FBI TRILOGY

BRAIN TWISTER

THE IMPOSSIBLES

SUPERMIND

MARK PHILLIPS

ISBN 978-1-60089-136-6

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.

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PageTurner Editions/Futures-Past Science Fiction

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BOOK 1

BRAIN TWISTER

Prologue

In nineteen-fourteen, it was enemy aliens.

In nineteen-thirty, it was Wobblies.

In nineteen-fifty-seven, it was fellow-travelers.

And, in nineteen seventy-one, Kenneth J. Malone rolled wearily out of bed wondering what the hell it

was going to be now.

One thing, he told himself, was absolutely certain: it was going to be terrible. It always was.

He managed to stand up, although he was swaying slightly when he walked across the room to the

mirror for his usual morning look at himself. He didn't much like staring at his own face, first thing in the

morning, but then, he told himself, it was part of the toughening-up process every FBI agent had to go

through. You had to learn to stand up and take it when things got rough, he reminded himself. He blinked

and looked into the mirror.

His image blinked back.

He tried a smile. It looked pretty horrible, he thought-but, then, the mirror had a slight ripple in it, and the

ripple distorted everything. Malone's face looked as if it had been gently patted with a waffle-iron.

And, of course, it was still early morning, and that meant he was having a little difficulty in focusing his

eyes.

Vaguely, he tried to remember the night before. He was just ending his vacation, and he thought he

recalled having a final farewell party for two or three lovely female types he had chanced to meet in what

was still the world's finest City of Opportunity, Washington, D.C. (latest female-to-male ratio,

five-and-a-half to one). The party had been a classic of its kind, complete with hot and cold running ideas

of all sorts, and lots and lots of nice powerful liquor.

Malone decided sadly that the ripple wasn't in the mirror, but in his head. He stared at his unshaven face

blearily.

Blink. Ripple.

Quite impossible, he told himself. Nobody could conceivably look as horrible as Kenneth J. Malone

thought he did. Things just couldn't be as bad as all that.

Ignoring a still, small voice which asked persistently: “Why not?” he turned away from the mirror and set

about finding his clothes. He determined to take his time about getting ready for work: after all, nobody

could really complain if he arrived late on his first day after vacation. Everybody knew how tired

vacations made a person.

And, besides, there was probably nothing happening anyway. Things had, he recalled with faint pleasure,

been pretty quiet lately. Ever since the counterfeiting gang he'd caught had been put away, crime seemed

to have dropped to the nice, simple levels of the 1950's and ‘60's. Maybe, he hoped suddenly, he'd be

able to spend some time catching up on his scientific techniques, or his math, or pistol practice....

The thought of pistol practice made his head begin to throb with the authority of a true hangover. There

were fifty or sixty small gnomes inside his skull, he realized, all of them with tiny little hammers. They were

mining for lead.

"The lead,” Malone said aloud, “is farther down. Not in the skull."

The gnomes paid him no attention. He shut his eyes and tried to relax. The gnomes went right ahead with

their work, and microscopic regiments of Eagle Scouts began marching steadily along his nerves.

There were people, Malone had always understood, who bounced out of their beds and greeted each

new day with a smile. It didn't sound possible, but then again there were some pretty strange people. The

head of that counterfeiting ring, for instance: where had he got the idea of picking an alias like André

Gide?

Clutching at his whirling thoughts, Malone opened his eyes, winced, and began to get dressed. At least,

he thought, it was going to be a peaceful day.

It was at this second that his private intercom buzzed.

Malone winced again. “To hell with you,” he called at the thing, but the buzz went on, ignoring the code

shut-off. That meant, he knew, an emergency call, maybe from his Chief of Section. Maybe even from

higher up.

"I'm not even late for work yet,” he complained. “I will be, but I'm not yet. What are they screaming

about?"

There was, of course, only one way to find out. He shuffled painfully across the room, flipped the switch

and said:

"Malone here.” Vaguely, he wondered if it were true. He certainly didn't feel as if he were here. Or

there. Or anywhere at all, in fact.

A familiar voice came tinnily out of the receiver. “Malone, get down here right away!"

The voice belonged to Andrew J. Burris. Malone sighed deeply and felt grateful, for the fiftieth time, that

he had never had a TV pickup installed in the intercom. He didn't want the FBI chief to see him looking

as horrible as he did now, all rippled and everything. It wasn't-well, it wasn't professional, that was all.

"I'll get dressed right away,” he assured the intercom. “I should be there in—"

"Don't bother to get dressed,” Burris snapped. “This is an emergency!"

"But, Chief—"

"And don't call me Chief!"

"Okay,” Malone said. “Sure. You want me to come down in my pyjamas. Right?"

"I want you to—” Burris stopped. “All right, Malone. If you want to waste time while our country's life is

at stake, you go ahead. Get dressed. After all, Malone, when I say something is an emergency—"

"I won't get dressed, then,” Malone said. “Whatever you say."

"Just do something!” Burris told him desperately. “Your country needs you. Pyjamas and all. Malone, it's

a crisis!"

Conversations with Burris, Malone told himself, were bound to be a little confusing. “I'll be right down,”

he said.

"Fine,” Burris said, and hesitated. Then he added: “Malone, do you wear the tops or the bottoms?"

"The what?"

"Of your pyjamas,” Burris explained hurriedly. “The top part or the bottom part?"

"Oh,” Malone said. “As a matter of fact, I wear both."

"Good,” Burris said with satisfaction. “I wouldn't want an agent of mine arrested for indecent exposure.”

He rang off.

Malone blinked at the intercom for a minute, shut it off and then, ignoring the trip-hammers in his skull

and the Eagle Scouts on his nerves, began to get dressed. Somehow, in spite of Burris’ feelings of crisis,

he couldn't see himself tying to flag a taxi on the streets of Washington in his pyjamas. Anyhow, not while

he was awake. I dreamed I was an FBI agent, he thought sadly, in my drafty BVDs.

Besides, it was probably nothing important. These things, he told himself severely, have a way of

evaporating as soon as a clear, cold intelligence got hold of them.

Then he began wondering where in hell he was going to find a clear, cold intelligence. Or even, for that

matter, what one was.

CHAPTER 1

"They could be anywhere,” Burris said, with an expression which bordered on exasperated horror. “They

could be all around us. Heaven only knows."

He pushed his chair back from his desk and stood up, a chunky little man with bright blue eyes and large

hands. He paced to the window and looked out at Washington, and then he came back to the desk. A

persistent office rumor held that he had become head of the FBI purely because he happened to have an

initial J in his name, but in his case the J stood for Jeremiah. And, at the moment, his tone expressed all

the hopelessness of that Old Testament prophet's lamentations.

"We're helpless,” he said, looking at the young man with the crisp brown hair who was sitting across the

desk. “That's what it is, we're helpless."

Kenneth Malone tried to look dependable. “Just tell me what to do,” he said.

"You're a good agent, Kenneth,” Burris said. “You're one of the best. That's why you've been picked

for this job. And I want to say that I picked you personally. Believe me, there's never been anything like

it before."

"I'll do my best,” Malone said at random. He was twenty-six, and he had been an FBI agent for three

years. In that time, he had, among other things, managed to break up a gang of smugglers, track down a

counterfeiting ring, and capture three kidnappers. For reasons which he could neither understand nor

explain, no one seemed willing to attribute his record to luck.

"I know you will,” Burris said. “And if anybody can crack this case, Malone, you're the man. It's just

that-everything sounds so impossible. Even after all the conferences we've had."

"Conferences?” Malone said vaguely. He wished the Chief would get to the point. Any point. He smiled

gently across the desk and tried to look competent and dependable and reassuring. Burris’ expression

didn't change.

"You'll get the conference tapes later,” Burris said. “You can study them before you leave. I suggest you

study them very carefully, Malone. Don't be like me. Don't get confused.” He buried his face in his hands.

Malone waited patiently. After a few seconds, Burris looked up. “Did you read books when you were a

child?” he asked.

Malone said: “What?"

"Books,” Burris said. “When you were a child. Read them."

"Sure I did,” Malone said. “Bomba the Jungle Boy, and Doctor Doolittle, and Lucky Starr, and Little

Women—"

"Little Women?"

"When Beth died,” Malone said, “I wanted to cry. But I didn't. My father said big boys don't cry."

"And your father was right,” Burris said. “Why, when I was a-never mind. Forget about Beth and your

father. Think about Lucky Starr for a minute. Remember him?"

"Sure,” Malone said. “I liked those books. You know it's funny, but the books you read when you're a

kid, they kind of stay with you. Know what I mean? I can still remember that one about Venus, for

instance. Gee, that was—"

"Never mind about Venus, too,” Burris said sharply. “Keep your mind on the problem."

"Yes, sir,” Malone said. He paused. “What problem, sir?” he added.

"The problem we're discussing,” Burris said. He gave Malone a bright, blank stare. “My God,” he said.

“Just listen to me."

"Yes, sir."

"All right, then.” Burris took a deep breath. He seemed nervous. Once again he stood up and went to

the window. This time, he spoke without turning. “Remember how everybody used to laugh about

spaceships, and orbital satellites, and life on other planets? That was just in those Lucky Starr books.

That was all just for kids, wasn't it?"

"Well, I don't know,” Malone said slowly.

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