CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

“Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable fr om magic.” Arthur C. Clarke MMichael Walker’s team had arranged a fleet of rental cars and vans that were lined up at the south end of the tarmac of Jackson Hole Airport, waiting for the trio of corporate jets to arrive. Judging by the row of private planes and jets parked near the terminal, it was hard to dispute that Teton County has the highest per capita income in the United States. Sitting in a hole, with mountains on three sides and Teton National Park and the National Elk Refuge to the north, land is at a premium in Jackson with the average home costing well into seven fi gures. The airport itself is within the boundaries of Teton National Park and on certain days and weather conditions, is one of the most difficult places in the world to land an airplane. Today the fog had burnt off early and the winds were light. As usual, miles from the nearest industrial center and too early for forest fi re season, the air was a pristine blue that was so intense sunglasses were required. On a clear moonless night the sky can be so clear, that if the angle of the sun is right, you can actually see satellites orbiting the earth. Th e fi rst Gulfstream to land was not from The Washington Post. It had the Walker Industries company logo on the tail fi n. The door opened and after the stairs were extended a tiny woman carrying a baby wrapped in a blanket came down the steps. Frank McCarthy ran across the tarmac to see his infant son for the first time. All 256 Rod Pennington & Jeffery A. Martin that was visible of the lad was a shock of bright red hair. Taking the boy in his arms, he motioned toward the main party while he and his wife began marching purposefully in that direction. “Mr. Walker, this is my wife….” Before he could finish his sentence, Cindi McCarthy had slapped Michael Walker hard enough across the face to rattle his fi llings. “Pleased to meet you,” she said, as she walked past the CEO and leading shareholder of a Fortune 50 company. The others in the Hermes Project had to cover their faces or turn away to keep Walker from seeing their laughter. Walker flexed his jaw. “I deserved that.” “Yes, you did,” Penelope agreed, making no attempt to suppress her glee. “Wanted to do that a few times myself,” she muttered to Sally Winters, who nodded her agreement. “What was that?” “Nothing.” Another jet touched down and taxied toward them. This one contained the brass of The Washington Post. Mark Hatchet was fi rst off and greeted Penelope with a hug. He held her at arm’s length and examined her from head to toe. “Wow, you’ve lost some weight.” “Thanks for noticing.” She patted his potbelly and said, “Looks like you found everything I lost.” “Hotel food.” “We need to find you another wife.” “Yeah, you know what they say, the sixth time’s the charm.” Mark Hatchet was nearly seventy pounds heavier than he had been in his college days. Years of living out of a suitcase, covering everything from natural disasters to presidential campaigns, had taken a toll. Moving off the news beat and into the editor’s chair hadn’t helped. He still kept to his four basic food groups of caffeine, nicotine, alcohol, and fast food. Though he was only three months older than Penelope, no one would guess they were nearly the same age. What was left of his thinning hair was more gray than brown and the years had etched canyons in his face. “Mark Hatchet, this is Michael Walker and Dr. Carl Altman.” Aft er a wave of introductions and handshakes, Penelope Spence pulled Hatchet aside and handed him a suggested car assignment sheet. Mark’s boss and the CEO would travel with Dr. Altman; Hatchet would be in the car with her and Walker. 257 The Fourth Awakening The second Gulfstream had landed and The Washington Post’s worker bees were now milling around on the tarmac gawking at the Grand Tetons. “Where do you want Aaron to ride?” Hatchet asked. “Who is Aaron?” Penelope asked. “Aaron Joseph. Our Senior Technology Editor?” Hatchet pulled back with a look of puzzlement that Penelope was drawing a blank. “You specifically asked for him by name.” “Oh, right.” She motioned for Walker to join them and he broke away from another group and headed in their direction. “Where do we want Aaron Joseph?” “It really doesn’t matter. Anywhere is fine. He’ll have plenty of time to catch up with Dr. Altman in the next few days.” Walker read their blank looks. “He was one of Carl’s students at Caltech.” Penelope broke into a wry smile. “If I hadn’t gotten in the car with you in Charleston?” “Yes.” Michael Walker answered calmly. “I would have driven to Washington, instead of to Cincinnati.” “Do you always have a plan B?” Walker smiled at Spence. “And C, and D, and… ” Penelope squeezed Walker’s arm. “I’m glad I got in the car.” Walker nodded. “I’m grateful you did as well.” “What’s going on?” Hatchet asked. “Nothing,” Penelope said, as she held the door open for her old friend. . TThere was a steady din in the large dining room of the main house as the staff and managers from The Washington Post and the members of the Hermes Project mingled. At the north end of the room was a tall, rail thin man dressed in black. He had a mane of golden hair and skin so pale it appeared nearly translucent. Gathered around him were three men and one woman, also dressed in black; none of them taller than Penelope. “Is that James Steerforth?” Mark Hatchet asked. “Yes,” Michael Walker answered after a quick glance over his shoulder. “Who is James Steerforth?” Bill Flickling, the publisher of Th e Washington Post, asked. 258 Rod Pennington & Jeffery A. Martin “He’s that famous illusionist who makes tigers and airplanes disappear in Las Vegas,” Hatchet answered. Franklin Mitchell, CEO of The Washington Post Group crossed his arms and glared at Hatchet. “I get the feeling we’re getting set up here.” “He’s much more than that,” Michael Walker said with a smile. “He has made a career out of debunking other illusionists and so called psychics.” “We did a story on him recently,” Hatchet looked around the room and motioned for a reporter to join them. “Jeanette Wilson wrote the piece.” Wilson, concern on her face at being summoned to a private conversation of all of the top brass of The Washington Post and the Hermes Project reluctantly joined them. “Yes, sir?” she said soft ly. “Sir?” A bemused grin covered Hatchet face. “That isn’t what you called me yesterday when I assigned that story you wanted to somebody else.” Jeanette Wilson’s eyes danced from person to person and she appeared on the verge of losing control of her bodily functions. She never for a moment thought telling off the managing editor over a story assignment would merit a dressing down in front of the publisher AND the CEO of The Washington Post Group. “Oh for heaven’s sake, Mark,” Bill Flickling said. “You’re scaring her to death.” Flickling pointed at James Steerforth. “Did you write a story about him recently?” “Yes sir,” Wilson answered soft ly. “Mr. Walker here says he likes to debunk illusions. Is that the case?” A great weight lift ed off of Jeanette Wilson. “Yes sir. He seems to think he’s Harry Houdini and…” “What the hell does Houdini have to do with any of this?” Franklin Mitchell demanded. “Houdini, sir,” Wilson said as she turned to face the CEO. “He made a career out of exposing frauds such as fake mediums and phony séances. James Steerforth has gone one better. He has a standing offer of one million dollars to anyone who can do a magic trick he can’t fi gure out. All of the other magicians hate him with a passion.” “And,” Michael Walker said as all eyes turned to him “I went him one better. I’ve hired his team and offered them a five million dollar bonus if they can prove we staged any of what you’re about to see.” “So,” Mitchell said. “He’s on your payroll.” An unexpected girlish giggle escaped from Jeanette Wilson. “What’s so funny, Ms Wilson?” 259 The Fourth Awakening “Sir,” she answered with a hint of panic in her voice. “James Steerforth is one of the highest paid entertainers in the world with a personal net worth in the hundreds of millions of dollars. He even owns his own island in the Caribbean.” “So?” Mitchell demanded “For him five million dollars would be a slow month. Plus he has an ego that could fill the Grand Canyon.” “Your point?” “What she’s trying to say,” Walker said. “Is that it would be worth much more to him to prove me a fraud than any money I might pay him.” “Exactly,” Wilson added. “I agree with Mr. Walker one hundred percent. His ego would never allow him to think someone was smarter than him. Combine that with all the publicity this story is generating, if he could expose Mr. Walker as a fraud his market value would explode. There is no way he could be bought off.” She shook her head firmly. “Never happen.” Mark Hatchet put his hand on Jeanette Wilson’s shoulder. He could feel her still trembling beneath his touch. “Thanks.” Michael Walker made eye contact with James Steerforth who nodded that he was ready. Walker motioned to the group that they should head to the north end of the dining hall. Everyone had to pass between two rows of tables covered with small boxes. “Please,” one of Steerforth’s male assistances said with a slight German accent. “Place all electronics and metallic items in one of the boxes. Just like the airport, no metal allowed.” The other three assistants were running handheld metal detecting wands over everyone before they were allowed to enter the roped off section of the dining room. In the middle of the space, Steerforth’s people had constructed an elevated platform with a seven-foot high, eighteen-inch thick wall separating it into two equal parts. Suspended above the platform was a shimmering metallic cloth like material that cast a shadow over the platform. On either side of the wall was a small table with a single chair. Positioned around the table were three video crews. One belonged to Walker, one to The Washington Post, and one had been fl own in by James Steerforth. After brief introductions, Walker asked Steerforth, “Are we ready.” He nodded yes. “Why don’t you explain exactly what we have here?” “Of course,” Steerforth answered as he brushed his hair off his face. “We 260 Rod Pennington & Jeffery A. Martin constructed this wall to be sure there is no communication between the people on either side.” Steerforth with a flick of his wrist motioned toward the material tenting the area. “This canopy is a special composition of my personal design that will block any video equipment mounted above from…” Steerforth paused for dramatic effect and waited until all eyes in the room were locked on him. “Shall we say assisting the participants?” A confident smile covered his face as his eyes locked on Walker. Walker’s bemused grin caused him the briefest moment of hesitation but it quickly passed as his master showman instincts kicked in. “The platform has special sensors to detect any movement, several additional sensors that we cannot talk about for competitive reasons are also in place, and we are monitoring radio frequencies in the immediate area.” “Who built this thing?” Franklin Mitchell asked. “My staff and I,” he answered softly. “Before you ask, either I or one of my assistants have been here the entire time since we began construction. None of Walker’s people have been allowed near the arena.” “Tell them about the two people we’re using,” Walker suggested. Steerforth had cold gray eyes that seldom blinked. “They have been with us for the past two days. We have taken them to an outside medical facility where they had full body X-rays and no metallic implants were found. We have monitored what they have eaten and they are wearing only clothes which we’ve provided.” “Are you satisfied?” Walker asked Steerforth drew in a deep breath and slowly released it. “Yes. I am satisfied.” The members of the Hermes project fell back and let the people from the newspaper have the best vantage point to watch the show. From the rear of the room, another of Steerforth’s assistants escorted the two Hermes graduates toward either side of the table. Both were barefooted and each wore thin black silk pajamas that clung to them as they walked. In one chair was a wiry woman who appeared to be in her mid-thirties and across from her was a sun baked young man in his late thirties. “To welcome you, what we’re going to do,” Dr. Altman explained as he faced the bank of video cameras, “is give a brief and very minor demonstration of a fraction of the potential in the research we’ve been conducting. As a bit of introduction, the two participants in this demonstration are Laura Banks who has worked for Michael Walker 261 The Fourth Awakening for over a dozen years and Stu Levy who has been associated with me for a similar amount of time. To help us is noted illusionist Mr. James Steerforth.” With a smattering of applause Dr. Altman yielded the fl oor. “Thank you, Dr. Altman.” Steerforth held up a deck of playing cards. “Mr. Walker and Dr. Altman allowed me to select the demonstration to be used and no one here knew what we were going to do until this moment.” Steerforth slowly looked around the room as he flicked the hair from his face. “I decided to make this quite simple.” He paused again for dramatic eff ect. “These cards have been in my constant possession since before our arrival. We will show a single card to one of the participants and ask the other to identify it.” Steerforth covered the deck with his right hand as he selected a card with his left, pressing it to his chest so no one could see it. Leaning in close to the woman on his side of the partition he showed her only the slightest corner of the card. On the other side of the partition he immediately heard, “Jack of Clubs.” Steerforth’s eyes, for the briefest of moments grew large before returning to their normal size. “Well,” demanded Mitchell, “let’s see it.” Steerforth held up the Jack of Clubs. “I’ll be damned.” Moving to the other side of the partition, Steerforth repeated his selection process and showed a card to the Levy. He immediately heard a female voice say, “Three of Diamonds.” Steerforth glared over at his assistants who were manning a bank of equipment scanning for a radio signals on all frequencies and they all appeared horror struck. After six more correct answers Steerforth motioned for his video crew to quit fi lming. “There are a thousand ways you could have done this trick. I’m sure when we analyze the video tape we will discover how you did it.” A bemused smile covered Walker’s face. “One more card, Mr. Steerforth.” James Steerforth glared at Walker but didn’t move. “Please. It may change your life.” Reluctantly Steerforth showed another card to Stu Levy who was seated next to him. Thirty voices, every member of the Hermes Project, said, “Eight of Clubs.” Steerforth glared at Walker. “Well?” Walker asked casually. “Are you going to show everyone the card?” Reluctantly, Steerforth held up the eight of clubs. 262 Rod Pennington & Jeffery A. Martin “Son of a…” Mitchell looked around the room at all of the smiling members of Hermes. “Okay I have to admit, that was pretty impressive, but I’m still not convinced.” “Nor am I,” said Steerforth. “Would you like to try another demonstration?” Walker off ered. Steerforth nodded as he pulled a silver dollar out of his pocket. “But this time I would like to use him.” Steerforth’s long delicate fi nger pointed in the direction of Franklin Mitchell. “Why me?” the CEO asked gruffl y. “Because,” Steerforth answered. “You may be the only other person in the room I trust beyond my personal staff. If you were to run this fairy tale as fact and then later have it proven to be false it could destroy your newspaper.” “You got that much right.” “Any objection, Mr. Walker?” “Nope,” Walker answered with a smile. The woman, Laura Banks, who had been involved in the fi rst experiment stood up and Mitchell took her seat. “Now what?” Mitchell asked. One of Steerforth’s assistants appeared out of nowhere with a thin velvet pillow and a heavy metal cup. “Please place the silver dollar in the cup, shake it then put it down on the pillow. Do not lift the cup until I ask you. Do you understand?” Franklin Mitchell shook his head at Steerforth. “I think I can manage that.” Steerforth turned back and addressed his “audience”. “This cup was manufactured to my specifications and even the most powerful X-ray cannot penetrate it. The pillow is of similar construction. When the cup is upside down on the pillow, no currently known methods of detection can breech them.” Glancing back over his shoulder at Mitchell he said, “Please proceed.” Franklin Mitchell placed his hand over the mouth of the cup, gave it a shake then flipped in over on to the pillow. Steerforth stepped off of the elevated platform so he could see both sides of the wall. “Please lift the cup and tell us what whether it is heads or tails.” “Okay.” Mitchell lifted the cup. “Heads,” he announced. “Please do it ten more times,” James Steerforth requested. After eight flips there was a buzz in the room, by the tenth flip it had 263 The Fourth Awakening gotten so loud, Mitchell nearly had to shout to be heard. “What’s going on?” he demanded. “Franklin,” Bill Flickling said. “The man on the other side of the table has a ping pong paddle in each hand. The one in his right hand says “Heads”; the one in his left says “Tails.” “So?” “Not only did he pick every one right; he made his selection before you lifted the alleged impenetrable cup.” “What? That’s impossible; it has to be some kind of a trick.” “We thought you would say that, Mr. Mitchell.” Walker said. “We would like a volunteer from your staff .” Immediately, a dozen hands shot up. “Volunteer for what?” Franklin Mitchell demanded. “We’ve progressed through several types and levels of training and learned a variety of techniques to enable someone to reach the states of consciousness you’ve seen demonstrated,” Walker said calmly. “For example, our outdated Level One modification, if you’ll excuse the term, was direct and intense while the newer Level Two techniques are more of a general nudge.” With a cross between a demand and a question, Bill Flickling interrupted, “What on earth are you talking about Walker?” “I assume you’ve all read the summary of our work,” Dr. Altman said. “For Level One we delivered direct stimulation to specific parts of the brain to enhance certain functionality. Level Two requires no contact with the subject.” “Is this dangerous?” Mark Hatchet asked. Dr. Altman answered. “We have refined our techniques and the risk is now negligible.” “Define ‘negligible’ for me,” Mitchell said. “You have to realize,” replied Walker, “that Dr. Altman is a scientist. His world is not black and white. Safe to us is ‘negligible risk’ to him.” Altman continued, “This will be a small application, and the results will be temporary. It shouldn’t last more than fi fteen minutes to an hour.” “I’ll do it,” Penelope said, stepping forward. “No,” Mitchell said. “If we do this, it will have to be someone else.” “Why?” Penelope demanded. “To be blunt, Ms. Spence,” Mitchell answered, “you’ve been with these 264 Rod Pennington & Jeffery A. Martin people for the past two days and I don’t know you from Adam.” “I’ll do it.” All eyes turned toward Mark Hatchet. “No,” Mitchell said. “There is only one person in this room I will trust. I want someone with as much skin in this game as I have.” All eyes turned to James Steerforth. As the consummate showman he milked the moment to let the tension build. With a click of his heels and a nod of his head, he agreed. . JJames Steerforth, dressed in light blue surgical scrubs, was lying on the gurney next to the fMRI. An elite handful of Th e Washington Post’s people, along with Altman, Spence and Walker had crammed themselves into the control room. Everyone else was outside watching the progress on monitors. “What we’re going to do,” Dr Altman said addressing the room and not Steerforth, “is to apply direct stimulation to a precise part of Mr. Steerforth’s brain. Th en…” “Is this going to hurt?” Steerforth asked, with as much confi dence as he could muster. “No,” Altman answered. “You may feel a slight tingling and be a bit disoriented. In most cases there is a release of certain neuropeptides, so you may also feel an overwhelming sense of euphoria. With the methodology we use this feeling will only last for a limited period of time. Are you ready, Mr. Steerforth?” “Ready as I’ll ever be.” There was a loud “thump, thump” that increased in speed and volume as the equipment came to life. All eyes were focused on James Steerforth, who laid motionless on the gurney. Penelope glanced at a broadly grinning Walker. After only a few seconds, Dr. Altman flipped some switches and announced, “We’re fi nished.” “That was it?” Franklin Mitchell was incredulous. “That’s all there is to the Hermes Project?” “No,” Walker said. “This is just a small, controlled example of what Hermes can do.” Walker stopped short, but the twinkle didn’t leave his eye. The control room emptied as the equipment fell silent. Th e gurney 265 The Fourth Awakening holding James Steerforth slid back from the oversized donut and everyone looked down at him. He was blinking his eyes and having diffi culty focusing on the faces. “Let’s give him a few minutes to get his bearings,” Walker said gently as a Hermes project nurse started taking the illusionists vitals. After a few uncomfortable moments of silence, James Steerforth pulled himself up into a sitting position and accepted the offer of a drink of water. Penelope was about to speak again, but Michael Walker’s hand on her shoulder stopped her. “Give him a few more minutes to reorient himself. Let him acknowledge you fi rst.” James Steerforth’s eyes moved from face to face without the slightest hint of recognition. He looked around the room as if he had awoken from a long nap and found himself transported to another planet. His eyes drifted back to one of his personal assistants who was fi dgeting nervously, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Bruno,” Steerforth said with his first sincere smile since arriving in Wyoming. “Th at was amazing.” A collective sigh went up from the people who knew Steerforth best. “Where are you?” Walker asked. “I’m in Jackson Hole, Wyoming,” Steerforth answered slowly as if the simplicity of the question puzzled him. Gone was the hard to place accent that was a cross between Eastern European and British. In its place was something that would have been more at home in Brooklyn. He pulled back as he studied Michael Walker carefully. “I’m thinking the better question would be where the heck are you?” A smile broke across the faces of Walker and Altman as they exchanged pleased glances. “What does that mean?” Franklin Mitchell demanded. “It means he’s fine,” Walker answered. He motioned for the assembled party to return to the “arena” in the dining hall. “We’ll give him a few more minutes to get his feet underneath him, then we’ll get started.” After being helped to one of the small tables, one of Hermes Project people handed Steerforth the head and tails ping pong paddles. “Cool. I call first game.” He began swinging them like a kung fu master. “Ah, grasshopper…” “How long will he be like this?” Penelope asked 266 Rod Pennington & Jeffery A. Martin “It varies,” Walker answered. “When we get time I’ll show you some of the videos.” “You have your own outtake reels?” “Yes. This is tame compared to some of the more intense sessions. Th ey’re hilarious.” Steerforth’s eyes found Jerold Altman and he rose to his feet swinging the paddles. “Women like men with nunchuk skills.” Walker pushed him firmly back into his chair. “We will have time for that later, James. Right now, you need to focus on telling us whether the coin flip will be heads or tails. Can you do that?” Steerforth examined the paddles as if he had just become aware that they were in his hands. “Sure!” Walker motioned for the CEO of The Washington Post Group to return to his position on the opposite side of the wall from Steerforth. Altman handed Franklin Mitchell the silver dollar and the heavy cup he had used in the earlier demonstration. Before he could get the cup to the table, Steerforth held up “heads;” Franklin Mitchell fl ipped tails. “Let’s focus, James,” Walker said gently. Steerforth turned his head and winked at Walker. Walker patted him on the shoulder as a broad grin crossed his face. Steerforth held up “heads” again. It was tails. After eight straight wrongs there was a murmur in the room as concerned whispers were exchanged. Franklin Mitchell glanced up at his publisher, Bill Flickling, with displeasure. After ten more incorrect, the murmur in the room had turned into a roar. With each additional miss there were groans and even a few shouts of encouragement to Steerforth. Penelope leaned in to Walker with concern etched on her face. “You need to stop this.” “You’re right,” Walker answered. “I think we’ve made our point.” Walker stepped over and placed a hand on Steerforth’s shoulder. “Th anks James. I couldn’t have come up with a better demonstration myself. Th at was perfect.” “Perfect!” Mitchell roared. “He missed every damn one!” As usual, Walker was nonplussed. “You flipped the coin, by my count, 21 times.” “So?” 267 The Fourth Awakening “With a fi ft y-fi fty possibility of each flip being either heads or tails. What do you think the odds are of getting that many wrong in a row?” A voice in the back of the room said, “Two million ninety-seven thousand one hundred fi fty-two to one.” All eyes turned to Jerold Altman, who immediately turned bright pink. “Two to the power of twenty-one,” he said, surprised that no one else in the room knew it off the top of their heads. “You guys didn’t seem to be impressed when they got all of them right earlier,” James Steerforth said as he shook the cobwebs out of his head. “So I thought it might get your attention if I got them all wrong.” “Mathematically,” Walker added, “getting them all wrong is the same probability as getting them all right.” Walker patted Steerforth on the back. “That was inspired.” “Thanks.” Steerforth motioned for one of his assistants who handed him an oversized golden envelope. “After what I saw earlier, I thought I might be needing this.” Steerforth rose to his feet and waited until he was confident he had everyone’s attention and the video equipment was running. A hush fell over the room. “I’m James Steerforth and I never thought this day would arrive. I have spent my entire adult life debunking fakes and charlatans. I was so confi dent I have issued a challenge to anyone to prove me wrong.” Steerforth mentioned for Walker to join him. “This is Michael Walker. By now I’m sure all of you have heard of the Hermes Project. I’m here to tell you, it is not a trick, it is real. I have seen it for myself first hand.” Steerforth handed the envelope to Walker. “Inside is my check for one million dollars.” As the room exploded in applause, Steerforth leaned in and whispered in Walker’s ear. “Anything I can do to help, just let me know.” A smile covered Walker’s face. “There might be one thing you can do for me.” The two walked away together toward with Steerforth nodding his agreement. “So,” Franklin Mitchell said to Dr. Altman. “This is the Hermes Project.” “That was the appetizer, Mr. Mitchell. The part of our project that has everyone so excited is in the next room.”