Recent investigations have revealed, however, that the item's 
properties arise from a [REDACTED] state, or more simply its 
existence as a fractal. In layman's terms, the item has a potentially 
infinite number of progressively smaller 'branches' radiating off the 
substance, in such a way that micro-examination and macro- 
examination produce similar or identical results. The disintegration 
effects are due to the monofilament and finer 'branches' slicing 


Without turning, Muir replied, "Indeed. | was always jealous of those 
with February birthdays." 


"I'm sure you know one of the six birthdays we have on file for you is 
in February. How's the wife, Troy?" Special Agent Granger, Global 
Occult Coalition asked. 


"Gladys and | have separated," Muir responded evenly. "I'm sure 
you knew that, though, just like how you know all the birthdays in 
your file on me are wrong. How's your son, Harry?" 


"Looking forward to Christmas," Granger replied. "Wants Lego. 
Again." Muir grunted. "So, Troy, what can | do for you?" 


The two men started down the gallery. "You've sprung a leak,” Muir 
said. "Foundation forces found information classified Level Q in a 
raid on a non-aligned building day before yesterday." 


Granger's training quickly erased the alarm from his face, before 
responding, "Why are you telling me this?" 


"Because whomever penetrated you also managed to get access to 
all the major players, including the Foundation," Muir replied. "We 
also believe they brought down the Pan Am flight in Lockerbie. Took 
out all the documents we recovered, and also hit the repository 
where we stored the backups. Otherwise, I'd be able to tell you what 
they had on the GOC." 


Granger let out a low whistle. "Any leads?" he asked. 


"We're working on that, and we need your help," Muir answered. 
"The Coalition has always had better sources at MC&D than the 
Foundation. We think they either have, or sold, the object 
responsible for taking down the plane." He handed Granger a sheet 
of paper with the Global Occult Coalition's KTE, or 'Known Threat 
Entity’, designation for the object. 


Pocketing the paper, the GOC Agent nodded. "I'll have to run this up 
the chain, Troy. Deputy Director Bain will need to know." 


"Thanks, Harry," Muir said. "If this pans out, I'd consider us even." 


"Thanks, but one file on one item handled by that damn club? That 
would hardly square us. This'll take care of the one | owe you for 
Uganda. | still owe you a favor for Fiji," Granger observed. 


"Well, I'm not going to object to a GOC Agent telling me he still owes 
me a favor," Muir chuckled. "Have a good holiday." 


"You too," Granger said. With that, the two men went their separate 
ways. 


Outside Moscow, USSR 
Friday, 23 December 1988, 0213 hours local time 


As it turned out, meeting the surviving researcher from Trinidad 
required a trip to Moscow. Now almost ninety, Dr. Andrei Pushkin 
had retired to a dacha in the hills overlooking the city. Thankfully, the 
Foundation's connections made it fairly simple for Harper to enter 
the Soviet Union, in spite of his American citizenship. 


Pushkin met Harper in his pajamas when the counterintelligence 
officer arrived at his doorstep bearing an expensive bottle of vodka. 
Seated at the retired researcher's kitchen table, the men spoke in 
Russian, a language Harper had mastered decades earlier. A cloud 
of cigarette smoke filled the room as the vodka slowly disappeared. 


"What brings a Level 5 Foundation investigator all the way from 
Washington just to speak to an old man in the dead of night?" asked 
Pushkin. "I retired from the Foundation and KGB almost fifteen 
years ago." 


"Andrei Ivan'ich, | need to know everything about Trinidad. I'm trying 
to track down one of the items that was lost," Harper explained. 


Pushkin sighed, "That was thirty years ago. My memory isn't what it 
once was - | hope you don't expect me to remember specific item 
numbers, especially for the objects | wasn't handling." 


"Do you remember an object that was a chest of exploding coins 
and an atlas?" Harper inquired. 


Pushkin thought for several minutes. "Vaguely. | never worked with 
them; that was - who handled those... Dr. Wong's project? Either Dr. 
Wong, or Dr. Hernandez." 


Harper nodded, lighting a fresh cigarette. "Could you tell me what 
happened when the Cubans showed up?" 


Pushkin drained and refilled his vodka draft. Taking a deep breath, 
he recounted one of the scariest situations in his life. 


Pushkin's Tale 


Foundation Research Site- Trinidad, Cuba 
Sunday, 15 March 1959, 1030 hours local time 


As the klaxon blared, and the corridor was bathed in red light, 
Pushkin once again found himself holding a gun. 


Nikolai lvanovich Pushkin, Doctorate of Philosophy in Phyics, did not 
like guns. He'd never been a fighter: he'd only been a boy during the 
Revolution and ensuing Civil War, which had stalled his beloved 
education by shutting down his school. When the dust had finally 
settled, he'd hoped that he'd never see armed conflict again. 
Unfortunately, as a young professor in Leningrad in the early 1940s, 
he'd been trapped in the city when the Germans had surrounded it. 
The Germans had shelled the city day and night for nearly a year, 
constantly trying to break the siege. When the building with his 
laboratory and office had been leveled by the shelling, he'd resisted 
having to take up arms by helping manage logistics for the 
defenders. Not that there had been much in the way of supplies, 
food, or ammunition to move. He'd met Sergei Petrovich during the 
war; Sergei had recruited him into the Foundation. After the end of 
the war, he'd hoped to never again have to handle a firearm. And 
yet, here he was. 


The morning had started out normally enough. Breakfast in the site's 
commissary, meeting for all Level 3 and 4 staff, followed by another 
day of research. He vaguely remembered the site's security director, 
Agent Shaw, mentioning something about the recent revolution, but 


surely the politics in Havanna meant little for this secret research 
facility. Pushkin had paid it little mind: nobody knew what went on in 
this small, apparently unremarkable compound on the edge of 
Trinidad. And even if someone had, the Foundation's security staff 
had far more firepower than the local constabulary. Most of the 
facility was concealed from the world in a heavily reinforced bunker 
rated to withstand all but a direct nuclear strike. And so, the 
researcher allowed his mind to wander to more important things, like 
how he was going to conduct the day's tests. 


After the meeting's conclusion, Pushkin had returned to his lab. His 
assistant, Dr. Rawji, had already begun work on the object they 
were researching: a Factory-built radio set whose transistors 
showed some promising anomalous properties. 


No more than thirty minutes from when Pushkin had begun to work, 
the site's intercom blared: "Attention all personnel! Unauthorized 
paramilitary forces have breached the outer perimeter. This is not a 
drill. Threat Condition Gamma has been declared. This is not a drill, 
repeat, this is not a drill!" 


Pushkin swore loudly. He picked up the radio set to carry it back to 
the storage room up the hall while Rawji went to work burning their 
research notes. The hallway was dark compared to the bright 
laboratory, illuminated only by the flashing red emergency lights. It 
only took Pushkin a moment to enter the storage room, open the 
proper locker, place the radio inside, and lock it. He heard the door 
fly open behind him. "Doc! We have to get you out of here!" an 
urgent American voice said. Turning around, Pushkin recognized a 
young fair-haired security officer - Mathews? Martin? Something like 
that - clutching a rifle. "Here, Doc, take this," the guard said, shoving 
a pistol into his hands. "Come on, I'm supposed to get you and Dr. 
Rawji out of here." The guard ran out into the corridor. Pushkin 
followed, awkwardly holding the semiautomatic handgun, hoping he 
didn't have to shoot the neculturny thing. 


Pushkin had barely left the room when two Cuban men in fatigues 
carrying rifles burst out of the door to his lab. They shouted 
something in Spanish - Pushkin didn't know what, since he'd never 
bothered to learn the language - and gestured for him and the 
security officer to raise their hands. The security officer opened fire, 


killing one of the Cubans. The other shot the security officer. 
Pushkin turned and ran, firing wildly behind him. 


The Russian rounded a corner. No Cubans appeared behind him. 
Now what? he wondered. He was standing alone, in a deserted 
corridor, bathed in red light, while a klaxon blared, in a site overrun 
by Cubans. Once again holding a gun. He hated guns. 


Pushkin was about to leave the gun when he thought better of it. 
Perhaps he'd need the thing. Reluctantly, he pocketed it. Now, he 
had to figure out a way out of the facility. He searched his memory: 
he'd been briefed on this eventuality, but it wasn't something he'd 
taken all that seriously or thought too hard about. Get to the surface, 
he thought. Surface. Then out of the complex. Then to the 
rendezvous point. Beach eighty kilometers up the coast. One week 
to get there. But first, the surface. How do | get to the surface? 
Pushkin ticked off his options. Elevators would be guarded. That left 
one of the emergency ladders. Great. Two hundred meter climb up a 
ladder. Where's the nearest one? And so he set off. 


After ten minutes of tense searching, he found one of the ladders to 
the surface. Why couldn't he just have been left to do his research? 
He didn't like doing all this sneaking around. As he climbed, he 
hoped he wouldn't find himself staring at a bunch of angry Cubans 
when he reached the surface. 


As it luck would have it, the access ladder did not lead into the arms 
of angry Cubans, but rather to the woods in the hillside overlooking 
the complex. Concealing himself behind a bush, Pushkin looked 
down at the courtyard. A dozen or so Foundation staff members 
were kneeling on the ground with their arms behind their heads. A 
large man with a beard in fatigues seemed to be in charge of the 
Cubans. He was talking with a European man wearing a dark suit 
carrying a briefcase. The Cubans were carrying out the different 
objects the site had housed. There was the radio, the chest of coins, 
the atlas, the three books, the sculpture, and the abacus. The man 
in the suit inspected the items. He looked at the large man and 
nodded. The two shook hands. As the man in the suit left in a truck 
loaded with the objects, the large man barked an order to some of 
his men. Pushkin watched in horror as his coworkers were executed 
in cold blood by the Cubans. It was a sight which would haunt his 


nightmares for many years to come, just like that night in November 
of 1917, or the dark days of 1943. 


As the Cubans left the compound, Pushkin disappeared into the 
hills, starting his long walk to the rendezvous point. 


Outside Moscow, USSR 
Friday, 23 December 1988, 0600 hours local time 


".,.And that was the last | saw any of the objects stored in Trinidad," 
finished Pushkin. "I hid in the hills northwest of the city. The 
Foundation picked me up in a boat a week later on a little beach 
eighty kilometers up the coast." 


Harper emptied the last of the vodka into his host's glass. "And then 
you went back to the Soviet Union?" he asked. 


"Correct," replied the elderly man. "The Foundation at that time had 
strong ties to the military and intelligence organizations of both 
superpowers. | was assigned as a researcher at a laboratory near 
Dushanbe which was managed by the KGB's Thirteenth Chief 
Directorate for Paranormal Investigations with Foundation 
assistance. Both organizations thought | was working for them, 
spying on the other." He laughed, "It didn't really matter to me, since 
both paid me handsomely, and since | only had access to what was 
actually there at the laboratory. | suspect my handlers for both 
organizations thought me ineffectual. But | was allowed to do my 
research, and that was that." 


Harper took a deep breath on his cigarette. "Did you hear anything 
further about the lost items?" 


Pushkin frowned and shook his head, "Only rumors that that British 
club had bought them. What was the name..." 


"Marshall, Carter and Dark?" Harper supplied. 
"That was it," Pushkin nodded. "| am sorry | can't help you further." 


"Andrei Ivan'ich, you have helped me immensely," Harper told the 


old man, who smiled. The investigator retrieved his hat and coat and 
took his leave. 


« Part 1 | HUB | Part Ill » 


Conspiracy, Part III 


Investigations 


Foundation Command-05, Moscow, USSR 
Friday, 23 December 1988, 0730 hours local time 


Lighting a cigarette, Harper sat in his temporary office in the 
Foundation's regional headquarters for the Soviet Union. Nearly 
three times the size of his Washington office, complete with a view 
overlooking Dzerzhinsky Square, Harper decided he could get used 
to the palatial treatment the Foundation afforded Level 5 personnel. 
Picking up his secure telephone, he called Muir back in Washington. 
Since it was almost midnight in the American capital, Harper dialed 
his colleague's home secure telephone line. After the two units had 
synced, he heard a slightly groggy voice say, "Muir." 


"Troy, it's Tim," Harper said. "| hope | didn't wake you." 
"| was still up reading," Muir reassured Harper. "What's going on?" 


Harper explained, "I talked to Dr. Pushkin. Looks like the Trinidad 
artifacts did get bought up by MC&D. From the sounds of it, he 
witnessed the exchange himself." 


"Uhuh," Muir grunted. "I've put out feelers to my old contacts at the 
GOC. I'm expecting to get their file in the morning." 


"| hope you didn't have to part with any crown jewels," Harper 
remarked dryly. 


"Nah, this was in exchange for services already rendered," Muir 
replied. "Didn't even have to cash in all my chips." 


"Well, Troy, I'm going to sleep on the couch in the office here. Call 
me when you have the file," Harper said. He read off the phone and 


fax numbers. Muir confirmed them, then hung up. 


Foundation Commanda-02, Washington, D.C. 
Friday, 23 December 1988, 0710 hours local time 


Troy Muir had just started the office coffee maker when Monica 
walked in carrying a manila envelope. "Mr. Muir, the front desk 
reported this was dropped off for you this morning by an Agent 
Granger of the Global Occult Coalition," she said, handing it to him. 
"It cleared the standard security screen: just a file." 


"Thanks, Monica," Muir said, opening the file. Inside were three 
sheets of paper. 


Troy, 
Merry Christmas. 


- Harry 


TOP SECRET - Global Occult Coalition - TOP 
SECRET 


KTE-1767-Flint 


Threat ID: KTE-1767-Flint "Blood Treasure" 
Authorized Response Level: 3 (Moderate Threat) 


Description: Spanish world atlas printed in 1521 with accuracy 
comparable to contemporary maps. Oak chest approximately 60 cm 
by 38 cm by 45 cm. 500 Spanish gold 2 escudo coins, minted in 
1521. Atlas displays current coin locations in real time. When 
activated by the atlas (activation method unknown), coins will 
release approximately 5 MJ of energy in explosive force before 
returning undamaged to the chest. Type II explosive entity. 


Rules of Engagement: Object represents threat to global political 


stability, having been used to incite at least one major war. Object is 
to be destroyed by any means necessary and appropriate if the 
chance arises.