BILUFMQLTR
-SILENT- THUNDER
DEAN ING
8/27/2002

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DEAN
ING

-SILENT-

THUNDER

Other
books by Dean Ing

Single
Combat

Wild
Country

Blood
of Eagles

The
Big Lifters

The
Ransom of Black Stealth One

This
is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in
this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or
events is purely coincidental.

SILENT
THUNDER Copyright 1991 by Dean Ing

All
rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or
portions thereof, in any form.

A
Tor Book

Published
by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

49
West 24th Street

New
York, N.Y. 10010

Cover
art by Joe DeVito

ISBN:
0-812-50265-5

First
edition: July 1991

Printed
in the United States of America

0987654321

SILENT
THUNDER by Dean Ing

For
the brain trust: Tim, Tim, Ev, and Joe.

ONE

March,
1967

Only
a man destined for greatness, sergeant Walter Kalvin reflected,
could keep his alertness up and his temper down on a night as cheerless
as this. Even with mature chestnut trees for a windbreak in the
gloom of the Stadtpark, Vienna's night wind could bite
like a Doberman. The major stood slope-shouldered under his heavy
European overcoat, with his furled umbrella hooked into a coat pocket.
He had emptied his own packet of Pall Malls an hour before and was
smoking one of Kalvin's Salems now, cursing the menthol in his lungs,
the Viennese slush under his feet, and the man who might or might
not contact the Americans as promised. He likes his vices unmentholated,
Kalvin told himself, drawing some comfort from the major's
inferior showing. Competitiveness had been part of Walter Kalvin's
legacy from immigrant parents. If I had oak leaves instead of
four lousy stripes, I could tell this guy to go
buy himself some Austrian cigarettes. Well, some day....

Neither
man wore military insignia, though both carried Air Force ID. While
civilian clothes of European cut did not assure freedom from surveillance,
American uniforms would have drawn more attention than a bonfire
in the Stadtpark's deepest shadows. Their flat little German-made,
nine-millimeter automatics in shoulder holsters were government
issue. Though he had been reposted to Air Force Intelligence for
less than a year, after someone noticed his fluency in German, Walter
Kalvin had heard his share of stories about Vienna during his familiarization
with the pistol. A man who looked out of place in Central Europe
might pick up a half-dozen tails: one KGB, one CIA, and four free-lancers
who made precarious livings by selling tidbits to all sides. The
free-lancers, it was said, rarely carried firearms. As the joke
went, cloaks were out but daggers were definitely in.

This
was Sergeant Kalvin's fifth field sortie from the air base near
Wiesbaden, but his first into Austria. He had drawn this duty only
because the major did not speak German. And Dieter Mainz, the man
who had made contact with a regular Air Force officer leading by
stages to this peculiar rendezvous, had claimed to speak no English.
Kalvin knew that the job should have been taken over by the CIA,
but it seemed barely possible that Dieter Mainz could advance a
few careers in Air Force Intelligence. At the moment, Kalvin did
not dream that it would advance him far beyond a military
commission. Mainz was just a contact, though a peculiar one from
the start.

According
to the case file, 'Dieter Mainz' was probably a beard, a false name.
The real Mainz, an audio engineer with the prewar Reichs Rundfimk
group in Berlin, had disappeared on the Night of the Long Knives
in 1934. Mainz had been one of the many victims of Hitler's first
great domestic massacre. To young Walter Kalvin it was the stuff
of legend, a web of events that had spun out their
courses before he was old enough to read. If the man had
not resurfaced in over thirty years, in all likelihood he was long
dead. Still, if they failed to make contact on this hitter night,
Kalvin and the major would have to try again in seven days.

The
major stamped his feet and grunted in pain, the umbrella a ludicrous
pendulum at his side. Goddammit, sergeant, any man who's two
hours late is a man who is not going to show!

Yes,
sir, said Kalvin. Then, more softly: Should you be mentioning
rank out here?

The
major, who tended to be lax about professionalism but knew very
well when it was called into question, stared hard at Kalvin. Is
that insubordination?

No,
sir, said Kalvin. At that instant he saw a two-U'Uged shadow
crossing from a footpath in the distance, a slender silhouette that
caused distant lights to wink as it approached. In low tones Kalvin
added, This could be our man.

To
his credit, the major had seen it too. Mainz had been very specific,
insisting on his own recognition signals. The major grabbed his
umbrella, slung its furled length over one shoulder like a hunting
rifle, and walked slowly forward with Kalvin beside him. The shadow
began to re-solve itself into a man of slight stature, hands in
the pockets of his greatcoat, hatbrim hiding his face. When they
were ten paces apart, Kalvin began to talk conversationally but
in German. The major swung the umbrella to his other shoulder according
to plan, nodding as if he understood Kalvin.

Herr
Donner, said the man facing them, and stopped. It was a common
surname.

Herr
Sprache, Kalvin responded with an unlikely surname. Together,
the names formed a key word. As tradecraft it was dreadfully amateurish,
but Mainz had called the shots.
Donnersprache, thunderspeak, was still among the unsolved
mysteries of Hitler's Reich. According to the best guesses of spook
historians, Donnersprache had pertained to electronics, probably
an aid to eavesdropping, no doubt primitive by modern standards
but still an enigma. No mention of it had ever been found in official
records, though the two men closest to Adolf Hitler had at various
times scribbled cryptic references to the thing, or possibly the
person, called Donnersprache.

A
hand came out of the greatcoat, wearing a glove, and the Americans
shook it. Rapidly, in German, Kalvin explained that the gentleman
beside him did not speak the language. Was it possible for them
to continue their discussion while riding in a BMW sedan with an
excellent heater?

Naturlich,
of course, Mainz replied. But
permit me to retrieve a traveling bag I left among the bushes nearby.
Later, Kalvin would report the old man's age as nearing eighty,
his speech halting and sometimes vague as might befit a man whose
mind had begun to fail. Kalvin's true impression was that this preternaturally
alert little gnome of a man kept all his mental bricks neatly stacked.

The
major clearly loathed his role but accepted it anyway, hurrying
off to retrieve their rented BMW as the old man half-trotted back
to the shadows of anonymous shrubbery. Waiting alone for the car
near the Rechte Bahngasse, Kalvin felt that the old man
had still not decided to trust the Americans. One or both of those
coat pockets, he judged, was full of handgun—an infraction far more
serious in Austria than in, say, the United States. For Kalvin and
the major, sidearms were more acceptable; above a certain level
of business such things were taken for granted.

Dieter
Mainz returned before the major did, lugging an old leather valise
that, Kalvin presumed, held the secrets of Donnersprache. Kalvin
tried not to stare at it, smiling instead
at his companion, who kept jerking his head away from the street
to scan the shadows. I think you need not fear for your life,''
Kalvin said, noticing the old man's nervous glances. How important
can Donnersprache be, in a time when a radio transmitter can be
hidden in the heel of a shoe?

Can
that transmitter hypnotize ten million listeners?

Kalvin
shrugged. I suppose it depends on what is Mid, he hedged,
watching a bulky shadow stroll into the street two hundred meters
away. He tensed as the distant stranger began to walk in their direction.
This old guy is getting to me, he admitted to himself.

No,
it does not matter what is said when the machine makes one's words
seem absolutely true. What matters is the listener's capacity, and
desire, to believe in something. Mainz said it dogmatically,
as if lecturing on fundamentals.

Before
enlisting to avoid the draft and a rifleman's fate in Vietnam, Walter
Kalvin had been a mediocre student of rhetoric at NYU. The concept
of charisma, the overwhelming power of certain individuals to convince
many others, had never seemed so real to him as it did at this moment.
Maybe old Mainz himself has charisma, thought Kalvin. He's
sure got my nerves twanging. Lord, what if it's a kind
of force field, and he has one in his pocket? Chuckling at
his own fanciful notion, Kalvin said, Perhaps you will tell
me exactly what Donnersprache is, and what it does. Do you have
it with you, Herr Mainz?

I
should not be offering to sell the machine to a man who docs not
already know such basic things, Mainz protested. The
Bolsheviks know that much, at least.

The
major was taking an infernally long time, and it seemed to Kalvin
that the old man was rethinking his decision. To keep him engaged,
Kalvin asked, How can you be certain the Russians know something
I don't?

Because
they have no other reason to ensure that poor,
addled Rudolf Hess rots alone in Spandau Prison, the
old man said.

The
man walking toward them seemed to loom, now, though he was a hundred
paces away. I don't understand, said Kalvin, reaching
into his coat for his Salems, caressing the butt of the pistol for
added confidence. He decided he did not need the cigarette.

A
sigh. Last October, the Nazi criminals in Spandau were released;
von Schirach and Speer, the old man went on. All but
Hess, whom everyone knows has lost his mind. But even a crazy man
can make sense at times. That is what the Bolsheviks fear. Schirach
was a fool, and Speer only a hapless architect. If that swine Hitler
would not trust his own Gestapo with Donnersprache, why would he
entrust its secrets to such as those? No; only a few knew. Those
of us who developed it, and of course Goering—and Hess.

Sergeant
Walter Kalvin began to feel as if he was floundering in a nightmare,
one dreamed many times before but only partly remembered. This old
German was rattling off the names of men who had produced and directed
the most savage war in human history. It was true, Speer and Schirach
had recently been freed from Spandau to great hubbub in the German
press. Now, jailers of four nations continued to operate the castle-like
Spandau Prison for a solitary inmate: Rudolf Hess. Three of those
nations claimed that they would be happy to release Hess, a man
they did not regard as a war criminal. Only the Soviet Union insisted
that Hess remain imprisoned in that vast pile of stone on the outskirts
of Berlin without possibility of parole. To Kalvin, the issue had
never seemed very important until now.

Was
it imagination, or was the hulking stranger walking more slowly?
Gazing at the face of Dieter Mainz, Kalvin asked his question softly:
Can Donnersprache be that important today?

For
the first time, Mainz turned to scan Kalvin's face at
close range, and in the lined old face Kalvin thought he
could read utter despair. You would not ask, he said
slowly, if you had seen its effect on an audience. Perhaps
you are immune; some are. Some more, some less.

Kalvin's
chill had become internal by now. I'd like to see this gadget,
he said. Does it still work?

No.
Only a vacuum tube, I suspect, but the case is—you would say, boob-trap?
To open it conventionally is to blow it, and yourself, to pieces.
Now, headlights swept across them, high beams flicking twice, the
moan of the BMW a familiar voice to Kalvin, who took the old man's
arm and stepped toward the street.

But
someone did not want them in that car. The big stranger was no longer
strolling, but running forward now, holding a small device to his
mouth with one hand as he fumbled in his coat with the other.

As
the major sizzled past the running man, he must have seen Kalvin
draw his pistol. He made the right move, swerving onto the walkway
as he braked heavily so that the running man caromed off the right
front fender. The man fell hard, cursing in a language Kalvin did
not recognize, and came up sitting ten feet from Kalvin, a silenced
handgun in his right hand.

The
major was shouting, leaning over to fling the front passenger door
wide, and Kalvin took two steps as if adjusting his paces for a
field goal before he kicked the man's weapon in an arc that sent
it spinning far into the darkness.

Kalvin
heard a sound like a fist striking a melon, and old Dieter Mainz
collided with him from behind. Get in, get in, he snapped
to Mainz, aiming his pistol at the prostrate stranger. At the instant
Mainz fell into the front seat, the BMW windshield resounded with
an impact that left a hole in its center. Kalvin fought to open
the locked rear door, and he saw the yellow wink from a distant
line of shrubs a split second before a portion of the windshield
imploded, the major's torso slamming back into the seat.
The BMW engine began to roar, impotent.

Kalvin
raced around the car, hearing another impact as he squatted to open
the driver's door, and with the help of Mainz he somehow managed
to thrust the major's body aside enough to huddle low at the controls.

They
hurtled away in the damaged car, Kalvin obeying the curt instructions
of Mainz as he turned this way and that. Once over the Donau Canal,
Kalvin turned onto the Praterstrasse. No one is following
us, he said, blinking in the breeze through the ruined windshield.
To his amazement, the BMW had not yet attracted the polizei.

The
gentleman is dead, Mainz replied, and coughed. Soon,
I shall be.

I
got you this far, Kalvin seethed, trying to recall the telephone
number he must call only in a situation like this.

They
shot me, you fool, Mainz said. Someone hidden in the
park.

No,
they wouldn't work alone, Kalvin thought aloud. I'll
get you to a hosp—

Quiet,
let me talk, said Dieter Mainz with soft urgency. The
decision has been made for me. Have you a recorder?

Try
the major's pockets, Kalvin said. You must tell me where
the nearest hospital is.

Mainz
told him, coughing occasionally, fumbling with the little tape recorder
until Kalvin punched the right button for him. Mainz spoke for perhaps
three minutes before he began to labor for breath, describing a
concrete storm drainage sump on the outskirts of Innsbruck, and
how a man assuredly would be crushed to death if he failed to observe
certain precautions as he climbed down below the grating. The old
man began, then, to talk about Donnersprache, and the ways it had
been used to weld Germany into a monolith of hatred. Past a certain
point of unified public opinion,
Mainz was saying, it was no longer a necessary. . . . Mainz left
that sentence forever unfinished. Kalvin did not know Mainz was
dead until he saw the staring eyes and felt for a pulse.

Accompanied
by two dead men in a BMW that featured several obvious bullet holes,
Walter Kalvin parked in shadows and made the necessary telephone
call. While waiting for help, he hefted the old man's leather bag.
It seemed very light, its contents soft, and its brass hasp came
loose while Kalvin was handling it. Since the thing had not blown
up then, Kalvin checked inside.

It
held a change of clothes and a passport. No device with radio tubes,
not even a schematic drawing.

Kalvin
thought about charisma while he replayed the last testament of Dieter
Mainz. Then he replayed it again, starting to hope that the damage
assessment team would take its time. Sergeant Walter Kalvin knew,
now, where the last surviving Donnersprache device lay hidden. Incredibly,
the city of Innsbruck was near enough to his father's beloved Tirol
that Kalvin's own accent might go unremarked there. Using the gloves
of Dieter Mainz, Kalvin found spare tapes in the major's coat, exchanged
the used tape, and wiped the recorder down with great care before
cupping the major's dead hand around it. With one gloved hand, he
inserted the recorder back into the major's coat. If anyone doubted
his initial story, Kalvin knew, he was destined for the tribulations
of a lifetime.

If
no one did, and if he managed a vacation as far as Innsbruck—and
if the last living act of Dieter Mainz was not merely the fantasy
of an old man—then Walter Kalvin was destined for greatness.

TWO

May,
1997

The
water was clear and numbingly cold, most of
it fresh runoff from
the snow that still clung to peaks of Wyoming's Absaroka Range.
Secretary Bowden let one of his matched pair of State Department
men hold his boron fiber flyrod as he began to tighten the straps
of his chest-high waders. Very spendy waders, the latest mid-nineties
technology. Very spendy bodyguards as well, both dressed for fly-fishing
in clothes similar to the secretary's. Nothing's too good for
the Secretary of State, Bowden thought, except being allowed
to do my job.

I
wouldn't, Mr. Secretary, said his third companion, a dark,
wiry national parks man named Martin. Keep the straps loose
enough that you could get out of those waders in a hurry.

Bowden's
glance was more quizzical than irked. Most of his trout fishing
had been done from powerboats in tame lakes while politicking for
Harrison Rand's candidacies over the years, so these waders were
a new experience for Bowden.
Kenneth Bowden had selected this outing, in part, because he felt
deeply in need of some kind of experience that took little thought,
and no politicking. And for another reason, too, a contact who had
not yet surfaced....

Martin,
whose coloring and high cheekbones suggested he might be part American
Indian, went on, The Yellowstone's not much over crotch deep
here, gents, but it has a stiff current and the rocks are rounded.
If those waders fill with water, you'll want to shuck them in a
hurry.

The
senior agent frowned. In three feet of water?

People
drown, Martin shrugged to the agent. But not with me
beside them. Anyway, that's where the lunkers are, out there in
the current. Of course I'll go first. Part of my job, he added.

The
younger agent sighed audibly and stared at his hiking boots. I'll
go, he said.

Bowden
waved the men away. No. Martin's dressed for it, gentlemen,
and I promise we won't go more than fifty feet out.

They
didn't like it, but they permitted it, moving downstream at Martin's
suggestion. If Bowden went under, his bodyguards would already be
in position to scramble for a rescue. This was Bowden's first three-day
vacation since Congress had voted to accept him as Harrison Rand's
Secretary of State, and he was tiring of it before he'd even tied
into his first trout. Bowden knew he had become physically soft,
and at age sixty he did not want to feel ashamed to grip Martin's
shoulder as they edged out, feeling the tug of the Yellowstone River.

Nonetheless,
he felt shame. Just one more little reminder of impotence on
top of all the rest, he admitted to himself. My God, I
haven't even made it with Lucille in over a month. Bowden wondered
if the sex lives of the Secretaries of Defense and Commerce were
suffering as well. Who would
have believed that an outsider like that goddamned Walter Kalvin
could usurp so much power, so fast, from the position of White House
Chief of Staff?

Let
the river carry your fly, Martin suggested, as Bowden tried
a sweeping backcast. The guide stood facing away from shore, his
voice barely audible in the white noise of rushing water. That
way we can attend to business.

Bowden
glanced around, read Martin's faint smile, and pretended he was
still interested in fishing. What business is that?
he asked.

Without
preamble: I'm your contact, sir. We're convinced that Undersecretary
Parker's death was a deliberate hit, Martin said, seeming
to study the river. We're not questioning whether Parker was
killed by that mugger: he was. But we've done a careful profile
on the mugger, and he'd been a suspect on two previous contract
killings. He became an addict, but he wasn't the kind to take a
deliberate overdose. Needle mark in his arm was a nasty one, too;
maybe the guy was struggling. In any case, he can't give his end
of it now that he's safely dead.

Safe
for whom? Richard Parker was a good man. He resigned as a protest
on my behalf, Martin. If he wasn't safe, who is?

Everyone
at cabinet level, we think, so long as they don't step out of the
game.

Now,
Bowden drew in slack line and glanced at Martin as he made another
leisurely cast. You mean, if I should resign, I might wind
up like poor Dick Parker?

Any
member of President Rand's cabinet who walks out complaining that
he's a rubber stamp for Walter Kalvin could wind up on a slab, sir.
I wouldn't tempt fate by trying it if I were you. Just hang in there.
These things take time.

Whose
time is it taking? All I have from you people is a handshake and
a promise, Bowden said.

That
handshake's been good enough for centuries, Martin replied.
If it makes you feel any better, this little meeting is expensive
for me; it's my last day as Cody Martin, and I'd got to where I
liked it here. I was DIA for twelve years before I became a sacrificial
lamb.

The
Defense Intelligence Agency was an arm of the Defense Department,
therefore not under control of State or Treasury. Bowden made a
test connection: You're telling me Secretary Canales runs
your group?

No,
sir, said Martin; because he doesn't. Consider us privately
funded, and please don't imagine that we're some kind of radical
death squad. Where due process is concerned you can think of us
as a life squad. We've all been professionals in one agency
or another. But someone botched the job badly for Mr. Parker. We
don't believe in coincidence. Somebody left Mr. Parker unprotected.

You'd
think, Bowden said, a man in my position would have
some muscle of his own he could call on.

No
sir, beyond your Bureau of Intelligence and Research. What I think
is, all your men but one could be yours, and you'd still be in trouble.
Same with Defense, Treasury, and Interior. It's a bitch, he
said, smiling as Bowden turned a vexed glance on him. That's
why I'm here, sir.

Bowden
nodded and remembered to wave a thumbs-up toward the men on the
river bank before he tried another cast. Why haven't you simply
gone to the President about the problems with Walt Kalvin?

Why
haven't you, Mr. Secretary?

Bowden's
laugh was short and mirthless. Good point. We don't know what
else Dick Parker was hinting about to the press, and he didn't see
fit to confide in me with it. First damned thing Harry Rand would
do is call good old Walt Kalvin in and ask him.

Exactly.
Both men glanced across the shallow river as another fisherman played
a hefty trout. Better reel in
and let me change flies, Mr. Secretary. It could look odd
if you don't get a strike.

By
God, that's right, Bowden said. Why haven't I?

Something
I smeared on the fly, Martin said, and laughed as Bowden cursed.
Figured we needed to concentrate on business.

Martin
selected a fat black-and-yellow fly from the assortment stuck into
his shapeless hat as Bowden retrieved the end of his line. This
McGinty should get you some action, sir.

So
far I haven't heard what other kind of action I can expect,
Bowden said.

You
may not believe this, sir, but we really do believe in the system.
I was told to ask you for a decision. Because of Mr. Parker, it's
your decision—and whatever you say, believe me, we will do.

That
smacks of power I'm not sure I want, but ask away, Bowden
said, holding a scarlet and black Royal Coachman fly that seemed
suspiciously oily and, even after it's dunking, exuded an unpleasant
musk.

Mr.
Parker was a computer hacker; a hobby of his, said Martin,
running the loop of the new fly onto mono-filament leader. If
he had anything on Kalvin that was important enough to get him offed,
he just might have put it into his private disk files.

Surely
they've been collected, Bowden exclaimed.

Not
from his girlfriend's apartment.

Bowden
stared. Dick Parker was a model husband! We had him checked
six ways from Saturday, Martin, and he wasn't into hanky-panky.

He
was into an old classmate, is what he was into, Martin said,
releasing the McGinty as if he expected it to fly away of its own
volition. Good friend of long standing; she just didn't remain
standing when he visited her apartment. Actually, he sometimes went
there without her, alone; that's
why we thought the place might be worth a subtle toss.

Bowden
made a cast, let out more line; cast again. Well, I hate to
say it, but if you can find any of Dick Parker's loose files, go
ahead. Just try to do it legally.

We've
already copied everything, sir. That wasn't the decision. The decision
will come if and when we do find something Mr. Parker hid
away on disk files. We have computer hackers, too.

Bowden
thought he felt the faintest hint of resistance on his line before
the sudden shock, almost electric, of pure energy down sixty feet
of fishing line. He set the hook and saw the rocketing response
as a sliver of light danced into the air for one jump, then another,
then a third, shedding a spray of droplets in dazzling bursts.

Nice
one, sir, Martin commented. The two agents stood in the distance,
shading their eyes as they watched. Keep that line taut. Play
him awhile and think this over: where do we take such information?

For
the next three minutes, Secretary of State Kenneth Bowden fought
a rainbow the length of his forearm and loved every second of it.
Then: Reel in, he's making a run toward us, Martin exclaimed,
Bowden hurrying to comply but too late.

Damn;
lost him, Bowden said, flicking the line, both men staring
at the bright bumblebee shape still attached to the leader. He cast
again. I'd like to tell you to bring the information to me,
Martin, but that would put me into an ethical bind.

Depending
on the kind of information, sir, it could put you into a casket.
We just don't know yet. But I don't think anyone would put out a
contract on a major newspaper, Martin said.

Bowden
chewed his lip. Mm-hmm. Just let the media blast it out. Well,
Thomas Jefferson told us the press was more important to us than
government. But Jefferson never heard
of X-rated holovision. He might have a different opinion today.
At that moment his flyrod bowed. A moment later, a second fish cleared
the river's surface.

It's
your decision we need, sir, said Martin. Then, as he watched,
You've got a showboater there, he observed as the trout
leaped again.

The
fish was somewhat smaller than the first, but a fine specimen. Martin
netted it deftly and let Bowden admire his catch. Not supposed
to keep him, but I won't tell, Martin grinned. How about
it, Mr. Secretary?

Let
him go, Bowden said, his tone changing as he went on, We
need something that still runs loose in this country besides Walter
Kalvin. That goes for media people, too; and I can think of one
who's like that rainbow there. Something of a showboater, fun to
watch and far from tame. His smile challenged Martin to guess.

The
'Nightline' crew? Martin took his time removing the McGinty's
barb as the trout gulped helplessly.

Too
responsible. Bowden laughed at Martin's expression. They'd
spend a lot of time checking things out, Martin. We need someone
with a track record for letting it all hang out. I was thinking
of Alan Ramsay.

The
man who had been Cody Martin, and before that another identity,
and after this another still, placed sixteen inches of rainbow trout
into the Yellowstone River with the care of a doting parent. That
hotshot on NBN with the lopsided nose; I know the one you mean,
sir. We need someone with high credibility who'd chase a Yellowstone
grizzly with a willow switch. Does he have a family?

Divorced,
I believe, said Bowden. He surely takes a bachelor's
chances with his career. Yes, the more I think about it, the more
I'm certain. Your man is Alan Ramsay.

THREE

Alan
Ramsay shouldered his way through the front door of his Hyattsville
apartment on a muggy Thursday evening carrying two armloads of groceries,
a mouthful of keycards, a handful of personal mail, and a letter
bomb in a manila envelope. The envelope contained no percussion
snapper or thin sheet of hexyl explosive; only words that were to
detonate Ramsay's life into smouldering fragments.

He
made coffee in his usual manner, the way he'd learned in the jock
dorm back in Lincoln, Nebraska, twenty years ago. Right arm snakes
out to the dregs container while left hand twists the faucet handle;
lean to the left and haul in a fresh dollop of coffee grounds while
the right hand raps the container to dump the old dregs; quick double-handed
rinse of the container, three seconds max, then cross arms. Ladle
fresh grounds with right hand while left sweeps Pyrex pot
under faucet. A handball champ named Jacque Flory had coached him
in the move that installed fresh
grounds and hit the percolator switch while the pot filled. Flory
had owned the Cornhusker record for coffee setup: thirty-seven seconds
flat.

Ramsay
whisked the pot across, poured its water into the machine, set the
empty pot in place, wiped his hands on his video-blue shirtfront,
and consulted the digital readout on Mister Coffee: almost fifty
seconds. Hell, he was getting slower every year. The process still
delighted his daughter, Laurie, on nights the kid spent with him.
Daddy's trick, she called it. Kathleen had called it macho; claimed
it was typical of the million little acts that abraded a marriage
to shreds. Alan Ramsay called it second-rate because he would never
beat Flory's record.

The
truth was that Ramsay had always been driven by self-doubt, the
kind of pitiless internal criticism that can drive a man to perform
beyond all reason—and then to conclude that he should have done
better. If Kathleen left him, then it had to be his fault. If his
three-times-a-week calisthenics made him capable of seventy pushups,
why, then he had to work up to eighty-five and inflamed tendons.
If his craggy good looks and humming vitality made him a popular
NBN face on the Washington beat, he promptly began to worry that
his value was only cosmetic. And to dig a little harder for a story;
keep asking the next question; keep wondering if the answers made
sense. NBN had discovered that when Alan Ramsay wondered out loud,
from scripts he wrote unaided, thoughtful viewers loved it. Those
commentaries were not news, but not quite editorials either. NBN
identified them as pages from 'The Ramsay File' and did not worry
too much about precisely what category they fitted. They were popular,
and that was enough. So long as Ramsay retained his appeal as a
thoughtful gadfly, network nabobs could bask in reflected ethics
and take Ramsay's cachet to the bank. They paid Ramsay well, though
not exorbitantly, and wisely avoided reining him in too much.

He
laid the mail out on his kitchen table as if dealing a hand of solitaire,
then shoved the bills aside. One evening a week, he devoted an hour
to such stuff; and thank God, his influx of forwarded fan mail had
nearly ceased two weeks after that 'True Believers' commentary of
his on NBN affiliate stations. The downside of feeling your commitment,
he had learned, was the impulse to read fan mail and, sometimes,
to spend time responding. At age forty-one, Ramsay was starting
to count the ticks of life's clock.

While
stuffing his refrigerator with groceries—including sticks of string
cheese for Laurie and soy Cheddar for himself—he made quick guesses
about the personal mail. One piece, in a manila, had been forwarded
from the Overseas Press Club. That happened perhaps three times
a year and usually came from someone with savvy who wanted to avoid
the vagaries of a network's internal mail system. Ramsay opened
the manila with the short, dull blade of the mail-slitter in his
money clip. Kathleen had been leery of weapon-like gadgets, and
he'd let this one stay dull, as if he expected Kathleen to return.

Wheels
within wheels. The letter inside bore a Baltimore postmark and contained
a note on the elegant buff stationery of one Matthew Alden, attorney,
and still another envelope with 'Alan Ramsay, NBN' scrawled across
it by someone in a terrible hurry.

Alden's
cover note was brief. Dear Mr. Ramsay: I am forwarding the enclosure
by request of an acquaintance of long standing whom I shall call
Cody Martin. Evidently his letter is his response to your recent
video commentary on the influx of so-called 'True Believers' in
the new Rand Administration (congratulations, by the way; I saw
it). Beyond this, I know nothing of the contents. Mr. Martin made
it harrowingly clear that I must not read his letter.

He
also hinted that you might doubt his bona fides. I can attest to
his steadiness, his courage as a witness in a string of federal
prosecutions some years ago, and his sense
of commitment to his country. 'Cody Martin'—his most recent
name—was long active in the intelligence community, and his titles
changed irregularly. Make what you will of that. I doubt that I
ever knew, or ever will know, his real name. In the present matter
his concern seemed unusually acute. He is not a man who strains
at trifles. Sincerely, Matthew L. Alden.

Ramsay
tapped the edge of the envelope against his teeth, fighting the
urge to discard it, wondering whether Alden was a real person and,
if so, whether he was the dupe of some subtle loony. Washington
had more of those per acre than any asylum. Then he sighed and slit
the little envelope and unfolded the sheet of paper, with its single
spacing on both sides.

Two
minutes later, Ramsay dropped the page and vented an almost silent
whistle as he stared at the wall above his microwave oven. Then
he resumed reading. He then reread the whole thing slowly while
sleet ran along his spine. The paper accentuated the slight tremor
of his hands.

At
least one assertion, Ramsay had heard as non-news, the kind of fact
you edited out unless it became important enough to warrant the
ruin of a dead man's reputation. The now-deceased Richard Parker
had frequented a woman's Bethesda apartment, motive unknown but
presumably not for prayer meetings. That corroboration made it possible
for Ramsay to half-believe in an Austrian woman who had, for a price,
delivered a copy of her father's recently discovered diary to a
State Department aide to Undersecretary Parker. Innsbruck meant
little more than skiing to Ramsay, and the name 'Dieter Mainz' meant
nothing at all. As the police liked to say, at least it listened;
it seemed plausible.

It
was the body of the letter that became so wildly implausible that
Alan Ramsay could almost see H O A X between the lines. And yet—
Walt Kalvin, the incisive chief of Rand's White House staff, had
not been born an American, so under the Constitution he could never
run for President. He could, however, help groom a Missouri preacher
named Harrison Rand for a senatorial slot and, later, for the race
to the White House.

Ramsay
also had to admit that there had been scuttlebutt to the effect
that Kalvin had been offered a cabinet position. Why had he refused?
According to the files of Richard Parker, Kalvin did not want to
undergo the kind of scrutiny Congress could bring to bear if he
were President Rand's choice for, say, Secretary of State or Interior.
In short, Congress could have smirched Kalvin's image. But Congress
had no such power over Rand's choice of his Chief of Staff—which
was increasingly a crucial position in the White House. Ramsay's
'True Believer' commentary had touched on the dangers of zealots
in government, and the zeal with which Kalvin attacked his job.
In passing, Ramsay had observed that Walter Kalvin, a zealot without
a cabinet position, was becoming Secretary of Everything in the
Rand administration.

He
wouldn't have to step down when the President does, either,
Ramsay murmured aloud. No Senate confirmations, no votes to
worry about. If succeeding presidents wanted him, Kalvin could hover
over the Oval Office as long as he lives. But he'd have to have
the devil's own charisma for that. More than Rand himself.
Ramsay looked down at the page, not really seeing the print; realizing
that if there was any truth to this tale, Walter Kalvin already
had the devil's own charisma in something called Donnersprache.
Maybe that was the source of Rand's personal magnetism, too.

If
this Mainz diary could be believed—if indeed a Dieter Mainz had
ever existed!—it was possible to add the kind of vibrato and timbre
to a voice that brought overwhelming credibility to the speaker.
Ramsay cudgeled his memory and came up with two names from Cornhusker
rhetoric classes. George Whitefield; William Jennings Bryan. And
another which he had heard on old sound tracks: Adolf Hitler.
Who was it—yes, randy old Ben Franklin had written about Whitefield,
a circuit preacher of modest intellect but with such compelling
emotional impact in his voice that most listeners turned out their
pockets on the spot— hypnotized, set afire with zeal, utterly convinced
of Whitefield's message. Other orators had specifically mentioned
their envy of the Whitefield tremolo.

Bryan,
a Nebraskan himself, was easy to remember because every school-kid
in the state found the man on their exams. Early in the Twentieth
Century, William Jennings Bryan had gained tremendous popular appeal
with his oratory: half with the words, half with his great, emotion-laden
voice that trembled and fulminated. If the popular vote had counted
as much then as it did now, Bryan would have been President. Even
then, he damned near made it, despite an intellect that was tepid
at best.

The
charisma of Adolf Hitler was too well documented to doubt, and anyone
who cared to could audit old recordings of the man's fiery oratory.
Ramsay's natural skepticism asked it for him: could it really
be that simple? Was it possible, before 1930, to construct
a vacuum tube device capable of taking a man with a strong message
and adding overwhelming credibility with enhanced resonance at the
right frequencies or filtering of unwanted voice tones?

Well,
certainly it would not work on everyone; Parker's notes acknowledged
that. The question was whether it had worked on enough people to
elect a Missouri senator—or an American president. All you had to
do was patch that device into a loudspeaker system. And Walter Kalvin
had been Rand's campaign manager.

The
notes of Richard Parker, building on this possibly mythical Mainz
diary, cited suspicions by German moderates in early 1933 about
the loudspeaker system of the Reichstag, the German Parliament building
where Hitler had risen to power. It became impossible to check on
those suspicions after the fire
which leveled the Reichstag in February, 1933, and a tunnel had
been found from the Reichstag to the personal home of Hermann Goering.

Mainz—again
supposing the man and his diary had been legitimate, Ramsay reminded
himself—had claimed that only a few Donnersprache devices had ever
existed. And that Rudolf Hess, realizing the tremendous damage his
idol Hitler had done through Donnersprache, had stolen one of the
sealed units and defected to the British in May, 1941.

One
of Parker's notes cited a quote from the famed Shirer text in which
Hitler, discovering the flight of his most trusted accomplice, shouted,
I've got to talk to Goering right away! No wonder,
Ramsay mused, if Goering and Hess had been the curators
of the Donnersprache machines.

But
Hess, in a stolen Messerschmitt 110, had not landed as he'd intended
in Scotland. Bedeviled by weather and without a landing field for
the skittish Messerschmitt, Hess had parachuted to safety while
the aircraft crashed. This much was history. According to the Mainz
account, Hess had either been unable to bail out with the Donnersprache
unit, or else it had been wrenched from his grasp when the chute
opened. In either case, when the device hit the ground its case
ruptured, and after the ensuing explosion nothing could have been
left but scattered, anonymous debris. By the time Hess was interrogated
the man was an emotionally shattered wreck, lapsing into madness,
speaking of strange forces by which men could be moved.

Richard
Parker's suspicions were that, during the brief alliance with Stalin,
Hitler or one of his staff had told the Soviets something about
Donnersprache. Hess himself had loathed everything Russian and had
gone from internment with the Brits straight to Nuremberg for his
trial, then to Spandau Prison where American, British, French, and

Russian
jailers had watched Hess when they were not watching each other.

That'll
play, Ramsay mused aloud. The Sovs couldn't get anything
out of Hess so they made damned sure he'd never leave Spandau. Yeah.
Yeah?'' He barked a short laugh at himself and let the page drop
onto the surface of his kitchen pass-through, as if by this gesture
he could just as easily drop the whole matter. Ignore it as the
ravings of a lunatic; several lunatics, in fact, all with the same
paranoid fantasy.

He
microwaved a passable Fettucine Alfredo and made himself a salad,
dicing the tomato into cubes so small that Kathleen had called them
lumpy catsup, snipping green onions over the romaine because he
wouldn't be breathing on anyone this night, thinning the Roquefort
dressing with yogurt to limit its calories. He chose a Lowenbrau
from the refrigerator. From time to time he caught himself glancing
toward the pass-through, keeping a wary eye on that single page
as though it might burst into flame at any moment.

He
ate at the little kitchen table, too preoccupied to select a recording
of what he called wallpaper music, the sort of music made famous
by Tangerine Dream which Kathleen had scorned but which helped Ramsay
unwind. Time was when he would have talked this out with Kathleen
(never Kathy, never Kate, never ever Katie, always insisting
that a reporter named Katie or Kathy would never get the respect
of a Kathleen, and asking who would ever have unburdened himself
to a Babs Walters) because Kathleen was a better investigative reporter
than she ever was a wife. Well, he still could debate it with her,
as easily as picking up the phone; but he wouldn't. Their only bond
now was Laurie, if you discounted occasional letches between ex-spouses
who feared AIDS more than they craved variety.

No,
not Kathleen. Who might he bounce this against at NBN? Britt? Ynga?
No, this was too unlikely, yet so goddamn
big if it had any legitimacy at all! He'd just have to
research it himself, source it to hell and gone, as the spooks liked
to say, or simply brand it as a curious hallucination and forget
about it, a feat of which Ramsay was simply incapable; and Ramsay
knew it.

He
reached out for the memocomp notepad at the kitchen phone and began
to list items that might be verifiable. If, and only if, everything
tallied he might start checking on the likelihood that a human voice
could be massaged and enhanced enough to make it, effectively, the
voice of charismatic appeal. A George Whitefield voice; a Bryan
voice. Perhaps even a Judy Garland voice, begging only for love.

Or
an Adolf Hitler voice, commanding hate.

Dieter
Mainz, Innsbruck; daughter? he
wrote.

German
electronics advances 1930, he
added.

And
Goering—Reichstag tunnel, and Hess flight,
and Shirer quote, and finally Kalvin bio. This
last item would be in NBN files and was as simple a matter as patching
the modem in his study into NBN's computer.

But
if, by some tremendous long shot, this tale had any substance, then
the government's own electronic ears might be alert for anyone who
became curious about Walter Kalvin. It was known that the National
Security Agency's electronic monitors could flag a key word from
a hundred thousand simultaneous telephone calls, maybe more. It
followed that the monitors might also flag a request by a private
modem. How much power could a White House administrator assemble
in six months; enough to set requirements for NSA and CIA? Not unless
he had the obedient help of the President of the United States.

Ramsay
had attended many a White House news conference, and had seen the
new President off the record, in unguarded moments. It was Ramsay's
feeling that Harrison Rand's mental wattage would not run a nightlight,
though he was certainly a likeable cuss. As likeable as Harding,
or Reagan. A vagrant tagline tugged at his mind: The paranoids
are out to get me. . , .

Christ,
it's catching, he muttered aloud, and reached for the phone.

He
did not call NBN, but punched the number on Matthew Alden's elegant
buff stationery. He reached a message recorder and had just given
his name, halfway through a recitation of his own unpublished number,
when he was interrupted by a brisk New England baritone. Mr.
Ramsay? Matt Alden here. I recognize your voice. Alden did
not bother to apologize. Ramsay often did the same thing, listening
to a caller before choosing to go on-line. One of the prices of
celebrity....

I
just got your envelope, Mr. Alden. If you prefer, I could call another—

Alden:
No, no, perfectly all right. Then the silence of a man
who knew how to wait.

I
think we should speak in generalities, Mr. Alden.

Matt,
please. Just a moment; there. I'm no longer recording and we can
consider this a privileged conversation, Mr. Ramsay.

Alan
will do. What I need is some way to contact your friend, the one
who doesn't strain at trifles. Do you have any idea, any at all,
what his letter was about specifically?

Specifically?
Not the foggiest, but I presumed it had something to do with one
of your—

Okay,
good. I'm serious about generalities, Matt.

Uh—understood.
My acquaintance did imply that if I chose to answer any questions—and
I suppose that would apply to you as well—I could regret it.

Ramsay,
with a chuckle: If I were amateur enough to tell more than
I asked, yes. Not a problem, Matt.

I
suppose not. And I don't want to wander into a can of worms.

Not
if I can help it. But I'd like to contact your acquaintance directly.
It would take you out of the loop, Ramsay added the inducement.

Alden:
Uh-huh. I can give you something along that line, if he concurs.
Actually, he'd be more likely to contact you than the other way
around. It's just as well because, frankly, I'm beginning to want
out of this loop. Ah—if acting as an innocent conduit somehow puts
me at risk, you will be good enough to warn me?

The
chances are one in a million, but it's the least I can do,
Ramsay replied.

Alden:
I didn't quite hear you say yes.

Ramsay,
laughing: Yes, and yes again. My sources are privileged too;
I never made this call. Anything more?

Alden:
Just keep up the good work. Good to meet you, Alan.

Ramsay:
And you, Matt. Good night.

Ten
minutes later, Ramsay realized he was still standing by the phone,
and by then it was too late to call Laurie. It wasn't too late to
do some research from an anonymous computer terminal in the National
Press Building, though. These days the historic old structure at
Fourteenth and F was open around the clock. Like as not, a gaggle
of domestic and foreign press people would be arguing, working,
and boozing until the early hours.

He
cursed the lock and the balky door of the garage he rented a block
from his apartment, promising himself for the hundredth time that
he'd install an automatic opener, knowing he never would. The shovel-nosed
little Genie coupe, his one adult toy, squatted inside with the
gleam of a yellow opal in a tarnished setting. Five minutes later
it was fully warmed, squirting southwest on U.S. 1 while Ramsay
inhaled cool night air. Soon he could smell the reek of the Potomac
tidal basin, and minutes later he found press parking.

His
ID was enough union card to get him past all the reconditioned bric-a-brac
to the National Press Club's lair on the building's top floor. Few
of his colleagues in electronic media spent much time here, but
a reporter could call up any number of data services at any hour—including
the Library of Congress—on an unused terminal without using his
personal ID. He spied a terminal carrel in a corner, exchanged nods
with a pair of newsmen who scarcely interrupted their discussion
in fluent French, fed coins into an espresso machine, then took
the bitter, steaming brew to the carrel and unfolded the small rectangle
on which he had made his list.

The
Shirer citation was the simplest to verify. Using a fast-search
program through the full text, three-quarters of a million words,
Ramsay soon verified a quotation and, moments later on page 192,
learned that Nazi thugs had traversed a tunnel from Goering's residence
to torch the mighty Reichstag. Nor was Shirer the only source to
describe this event as Nazi arson. A pretty drastic way to remove
evidence of wiretaps in a building, Ramsay thought. But
Goering was known for his drastic measures. The motive offered
for the fire was a manufactured provocation to round up German leftists.
Ramsay reminded himself that an act may have more than one motive,
and kept checking.

Three
sources described Rudolf Hess's uniform disguise—as a captain—when
stealing the Messerschmitt he piloted to Scotland. Only one mentioned
the fact that he carried a smallish piece of luggage, ostensibly
in case of an emergency landing. Ramsay thought about that for a
long time before he shut down the terminal, wiped the keyboard down
with a tissue, and strolled to another terminal some distance away.

The
state of the electronics art in Germany in 1930 was not as easily
learned by computer terminal. Parent companies seemed to have sprung
like weeds from the polytechnic
institute at Karlsruhe after the pioneering electronic work of Hertz;
Badenwerke and Telefunken had grown from such work, cross-pollinated
by Marconi, force-fed by military research in World War One. By
1928, Germany had fallen behind in commercial applications, but
her research in electronics was paving the way for the independent
development of radar. And in the psychological responses to audio
stimuli, the few research papers before 1930 were virtually all
German. No German citations in the field after 1931; no replications,
no refinements; almost as if the German interest had abruptly died.
Or as if it had been curtained off, Ramsay thought.

He
wiped this terminal down, too, and decided against calling up the
biography of cool, self-confident Walter Kalvin. NBN would have
such stuff printed out in a file anyway, where Ramsay could read
it anonymously. Now that Cody Martin's letter was starting to look
like the story of the century, every step in researching it would
have to be made on tiptoe.

If
anyone had tried to share the elevator, Ramsay would have refused
to enter it. He stepped outside, only two blocks from the White
House, into a chill midnight wind bearing too much rain. It was
no match for the blizzard howling through the mind of Alan Ramsay.

FOUR

Though
the hour was late in the cloistered room adjoining his Oval Office,
the President remained fresh and clear-eyed. Cabinet and council
members often remarked on the stamina of Harrison Rand, unaware
that their President's afternoon 'study hour' was really a ninety
minute nap. Harry Rand had once joked to good old Walt Kalvin, his
closest friend, that from two-thirty to four every day, Walt himself
was President. Kalvin had not seemed to enjoy the joke, perhaps
because others were present.

Harry
sometimes regretted this lack of risibility on the part of his friend;
had even prayed to the Lord to give Walter Kalvin a sense of humor,
though it was plain He had more important things to do because,
while Walt knew how to laugh in public, he retained the cold intensity
of dry ice and all the good humor of a headstone. People said that
Harry Rand, in private, was exactly the same as President Harrison
Rand in public, and this pleased him
because, as he used to tell his Missouri congregation, what
you see ought to be what you get.

Some
had forced comparisons between this Harry and another Harry from
Missouri who had occupied the White House half a century before.
It only bothered Harry Rand when they suggested that the other Harry
had been a little swifter of thought, and more his own man.

Nobody
had ever accused Harry Rand of special beauty, with his ruddy, round
and open face, free-swinging expansive gestures, somewhat larger
than life, given to bright vests that kept his belly in. He envied
Walt Kalvin for his waist measurement, which had not changed on
that wiry frame in the years since the two had met in Kansas City.

And
Kalvin's friendship had led here, to the Oval Office—and, at the
moment, to the small adjoining conference room in the West Wing.
Lyndon Johnson had called it the little office; more recently it
had been called the think tank. Beatrice Rand, in one of her first
acts as First Lady, had refurbished it in euromodern style and now,
alone with his chief advisor and half reclining in a pillowy lounge
chair, Harry Rand rested the heels of his loafers on the top of
a coffee table that floated on permanent magnets above its base.

Snazzy,
weird and wildly expensive, Harry
mused. Lord, where would I be today without old Walt? Delivering
benedictions back in KayCee, most likely. He
gazed with affection across the table at Kalvin, who was talking
as he always was; explaining this, urging that. Often, Harry listened,
sometimes with rapt attention when Walt called from the Executive
Office Building just across the drive. You had to hand it to Walt,
on a telephone or radiophone call the man was a demon of persuasiveness.
But at other times—now, for example—Harry's mind tended to wander.

Why
the heck didn't Walt accept an office in the West Wing, where we
could talk face to face anytime his President wanted him? Well,
Walt had a fetish about that; he had always, from the early days
of that first bewildering senatorial race in Missouri, depended
more on a good intercom system than face-to-face discussion. In
fact, most of Walt Kalvin's special ideas seemed to develop best
over the intercom. Which one of them was he pushing now? Harry Rand
tuned his mind back to the man who sat facing him in a Barcelona
chair, and caught Walt's drift after a moment. The Federal Media
Council...

...
Must have a more responsible press, Kalvin was saying, if
we want strong grass-roots support for your programs. There's nothing
like bushels of mail from the public to move those hidebound bastards
on Capitol Hill.

Now,
Walt, said Harry, with the sad little smile he always used
when Kalvin became profane. There's plenty of time to work
that out.

No,
there isn't. Other presidential advisors were far more circumspect,
would at least precede a flat disagreement by 'with all due respect,
Mr. President,' but not old Walt when it was just the two of them.
Those codgers on the Hill are experts at wasting time. We've
been in office five months now and they haven't brought the media
council to a vote. Do you want an end to abortion and pornography
and ecology freaks hamstringing good old American industry, or don't
you?

But
they won't be voting on those, Harry said.

Kalvin
took a long breath, looked away, took a sip of his watered bourbon.
Then, slowly and carefully, he said, Harry, you won't get
those programs enacted as long as the media is free to say absolutely
anything that comes into its head, including things that amount
to sedition. What have I been saying for the last twenty minutes?

For
the last twenty minutes, Harry Rand had been thinking about many
things: which negligee Bea was wearing tonight, which talk show
might have the most interesting
guests, whether he should have liposuction in the fall—things like
that. Surely a man who was devoting twelve hours a day to promoting
a more decent Godfearing America ought to be allowed to let his
brain rest before bedtime.

But
no-o-o. Still, there was absolutely no question that his career
depended on listening to Walter Kalvin. Walt even saw to such final
details as microphone checks for press conferences, which irked
Evan Showers, the Presidential Press Secretary, no end. And every
time, every blessed time, Harry publicly proposed some
program that Walt had warned him against, the response was lackluster
at best. At worst, it was hostile. Lord, Lord, how your flock can
jostle you at times! You've been saying you want to control
the media, Harry sighed.

Kalvin's
hand went up quickly, like that of a cop directing traffic. No,
no; one word you never use about media is 'control,' Harry. I mean,
everybody loves you, that's what I realized fifteen years ago, that's
how we got here; but by everybody, I don't mean everybody. Think
how a Jew reacts to a swastika, and you'll get some idea how a newspaper
editor or a TV commentator reacts to the idea of control. And unless
I'm very much mistaken, the kind of person who tends not to love
you is a cynic, and that's exactly the sort of person the media
is full of.

Don't
you mean, 'are full of'? Media is plural, isn't it?

Another
long pause. Are full of, Harry. I don't care, Harry.
Harry, can we just…just focus on the problem here? The only grammar
rule I'm interested in right now is that you never use the word
'control' in a sentence dealing with media. What you talk about
instead is responsibility. We've had responsible media
during wartime, more or less. And we've had temporary commissions,
federal bodies with the teeth to chew ass, during those times.

What
you want, Harry, is teeth that aren't temporary.

We
don't call it a task force or a commission, that sounds too much
like, ah—

Mustn't
say it, said the President, smiling, reaching for his own
highball.

Right.
You call it a council. The image of a deliberative body, one that
mulls things over and recommends things. Only this one can levy
a fine—pick a number—or jerk a broadcasting license. That, Harry,
is how you get a bunch of uncontr—unGodly media liberals to go easy
on the criticism.

Harry
Rand took a sip. Then we sweep pornography from the shelves,
he said.

Yes.

A
larger sip. Then we cast out the coat hangers.

Wha—ah,
the abortionist's coat hanger; sometimes you come up with unexpected
connections, Harry. But yes; out with the coat hangers.

Harry
drained his glass. It sounds good, Walt, I'll get back to
you on it.

Or
I can call you.

I
was sure you would, said the President. But I don't
see why the urgency.

Kalvin
swirled his drink and took his time answering. It gets a little
complicated. Call it a window of opportunity. I thought it would
stay open, but it won't.

Don't
go cryptic on me, said the President.

All
right: I know how you worry about people and I didn't want to bother
you. And he would be very upset if he knew I'd told you, so this
doesn't go out of the room.

Harry
drew a cross-my-heart on his vest. Who'd be upset?

Terence
Unruh. He has an inoperable cancer, Harry. He'll be dead in six
weeks.

Harry
Rand frowned his way to a connection. Oh; that CIA deputy
you're so chummy with. Family man?

Yes,
but they're taking it well. And the Director of

Central
Intelligence will pick the next man. And whoever he is, he won't
be as, um, friendly as Terry Unruh. We have a month, Harry. After
that, if we've lost our unofficial friendly provider and we can't
make sure the media are responsible to us, I couldn't guarantee
anything.

Harry
Rand knew that Walt's definition of 'friendly' leaned toward the
willing and useful; the manageable of whatever Walter Kalvin wanted
managed. Don't look so glum, Walt. Pointing at his breast,
smiling: This is still where all the bucks stop.

Walter
Kalvin's glance was almost dismissive. I wouldn't guarantee
even that, Harry, he said. You never know what ridiculous
charges might get ballyhooed into an issue by some gonzo newsman.
But with a Federal Media Council, you can stop the ballyhoo before
it gains momentum.

Harry
Rand could feel himself flushing with irritation because, while
he bowed to no man in his basic goodness, this council idea was
the sort of thing that might work for men whose supply of goodness
was severely limited. He stood up, walked to the ritzy rosewood
panel and waved a hand where the capacitance switch would sense
it, so that the panel slid aside to reveal the ice and the bourbon.
I've always wondered if cancer was God's justice. Is Terence
Unruh an evil man, Walt?

Speaking
to the President's back, Kalvin said, He's one of your most
ardent supporters. But no man's closet is entirely without its skeletons.
You wouldn't deny that, you of all people.

Harry
Rand wheeled, ignoring the slosh of Wild Turkey on his fingers.
No, but I can sincerely regret it. God has forgiven my youthful
sins, Walter. Why can't you?

The
use of the full name, 'Walter,' was not lost on Kalvin. Harry did
not use it often. I forgave you. Bea wouldn't, but I did.
I've even pulled a few strings to help
the, um, vessel of your sin in her career. You didn't know
that, did you?

Harry
started on the fresh drink, no longer feeling so fresh himself.
No. But now that I do, I bet you could reach her any time
you wanted to.

A
shrug. She's somewhere around, I think.

In
Washington? With the sensation of ants chewing their way up
the back of his neck, Harry was definitely feeling wilted.

I
think so, Kalvin said as though it were of no importance.
Can't expect a pretty Albuquerque girl to stay there forever.
Besides, this is where the jobs are. And she thinks too highly of
you to ever be a problem, Harry.

Harry
Rand made a silent prayer, not for absolution but for deliverance.
The girl had been his only stray step from the straight and narrow,
but try telling that to Bea! And somewhere around the District of
Columbia tonight, that pretty little time bomb was ticking away....
Who does she work for?

Walt
Kalvin rarely smiled, and when he did, it made him look sly. He
was looking sly now. Interested in her again?

No!
Not the way you mean. I could always ask someone else, said
the President, knowing full well his old friend Walt would rather
be his only channel of information.

She
works for a man named Tate.

Who's
he?

Standing
up, speaking quickly now: Who does consulting for us through
Showers, but Tate's made it plain she should listen to a man named
Lathrop, who works for Terry Unruh at Langley.

You're
telling me that sweet little creature is a CIA employee, said
the President.

She
doesn't know it but indirectly, yes. She does know that she works
for you.

Loyal
little thing, murmured Harry Rand, thinking, If I'd been
single and twenty years younger.... Well, I'm glad you
saw to her welfare, Walt, though I wonder what you were thinking
of, getting her a job in this town. And I repeat, I don't want to
face that temptation again, so you just see to it that I don't.
He knew that Kalvin was sensitive enough to his moods that, when
his soul was uneasy, even Walter Kalvin trod with care. I'm
going to bed now.

Kalvin
stood up, drained his glass. Just keep in mind that we'd better
have a media council before Unruh starts sipping morphine cocktails.
When we can nail a reporter for sedition, we won't need a replacement
for Unruh. If we can't—because Unruh could be your Ollie North to
an irresponsible press—consider packing your bags a couple of months
from now.''

Tugging
at his vest, preparing for the walk from the West Wing back to the
White House proper, the President paused at the door. I suppose
you've given some thought to the people I might appoint to that
council.

Some,
Walt Kalvin agreed. And to chair it, why, as it happens I
have a little spare time I might devote to it. Any problem with
that?

No,
said the President moodily. I was just hoping you might surprise
me.

FIVE

Ramsay
awoke with a possible solution foremost in his mind, the perch his
sleep had clung to, a springboard for a Friday morning scrubbed
clean by the rain; and its name was T. Broeck Wintoon. Ramsay made
it out Connecticut Avenue to the studios before nine, not driving
hard but with a sense of urgency. One day NBN would abandon this
sprawl of offices across the second story of a suburban shopping
center; go for status like ABC. And then Alan Ramsay would really
have something to bitch about: parking, congestion, formality.

No
need for a guard at the back entrance because his key-card was his
pass through the steel-faced door, and Ramsay took the stairs three
at a time. A cheery greeting to Ellen at the reception desk, a quick
scan of the big board in the middle of the 'bullpen,' a room larger
and noisier than it should be for professionals sweating deadlines.
He was in time for the early conference session for the evening
news—here in the studios they called it the
nice capades because several tough prima donnas managed to
put broadcasts together every day by simply nicing like hell, being
objective about the length and placement of their stories. That,
like working in an atmosphere of simulated chaos, was also part
of professionalism.

His
next piece wasn't scheduled until Monday. He even had time for the
call to old Wintoon, so Ramsay swung into his glassed-in cubicle
and punched the information number for Georgetown University. Professor
Wintoon, with only two classes to meet and a penchant for popping
in on fellow academics, was seldom in his office. That's why the
old man carried a pager on his belt, calling Ramsay back from the
faculty lounge.

Thought
we could have lunch, Ramsay found himself saying after mutual
greetings. Jesus, he couldn't just blurt this kind of thing out
without preamble! I'm researching a piece on the laser-boost
cargo system —that much was true enough— and wanted to
tap your head on the international relations angle.

Wintoon
had done a CIA tour back in the sixties. An old family friend, Broeck
Wintoon had developed wisdom with his caution and he had more solid
gold contacts than Bell Labs. The familiar gravel-dry voice was
vibrant as ever. The view of an unimpeachable, low-tech source,
Alan? I'm no engineer.

Ramsay
agreed, chuckling, mat he needed something from a generalist with
credibility, and mentioned their last talk six months previous without
referring to its substance. Wintoon would realize instantly that
the intelligence community was again, somehow, part of the topic.
Wintoon was booked for lunch, sorry, but would be in the Med School
library after that. Until cocktail time, the old fellow
added. If you'd care to join me at my club?

Booze
breath is a no-no when I'm on deadline, Ramsay said lightly,
though his own deadline was very personal, promising to drop by
the campus in midafternoon.

He
put the phone down feeling better, then hurried to collect his materials
for the nice capades. Irv, the producer, would forgive anything
but lack of preparation.

Ramsay's
upcoming piece would deal with the fleet of laser-boosted pilotless
cargo vessels now in development in central California. Dubbed 'Highjump,'
the system featured a fleet of small orbital vehicles that would
soon be delivering half-ton cargoes to America's half-assembled
space station on an hourly basis. A National Public Radio feature
had already hinted that, while Highjump's laser-boost was nonpolluting
and many times cheaper than chemical propulsion, it could also become
the basis for an orbital bombardment scheme.

Ramsay
thought Highjump no more warlike than the Sov and Japanese spaceplanes,
yet he was far from any conclusions. That's what research and videotaped
interviews were for.

He
fidgeted throughout the session with Irv, unable to concentrate,
remembering the letter in his jacket pocket. He carried the session
off, though, with promises and memocomp notes. One of those notes,
on a line by itself, was simply BIO. As if he could forget.

Despite
the handy terminals, Ramsay went straight to the station's wall-length
array of file cabinets. NBN had found that some people simply worked
better from paper than from a screen, and let the obsolete file
system remain. There, he found several updates to the bio on Kalvin,
Walter Franz, beginning with the Missouri primary back during the
eighties.

Instead
of letting an aide do the photocopy work, Ramsay made inferior copies
in Irv's spare office using his pocket copier. The problem with
pocket copiers was that they either made reduced copies that only
a kid could read without squinting, or they required that your pocket
be the size of an attache case. Ramsay chose to squint rather than
carry a purse. He took the copies with him to lunch,
gnawing an order of barbecued ribs while parked in the Zoological
Gardens with the Genie's top retracted.

He
knew most of the Kalvin bio already from the Martin letter, though
he was both excited and frightened to find Martin's details confirmed.
Foreign-born but naturalized, degree from NYU. Enlisted in the Air
Force, served in Germany, fluent in German. Later a master's from
Cornell in electronic engineering, a totally different discipline
from his NYU bachelor's, but military training sometimes broadened
a young man's horizons and educated him in the process. Postgrad
work at Stanford, experimental psychology and psychoacoustics, but
no doctorate. Several years in Southern California in the recording
industry. Then a staff member in the political machine that had
elected a dark horse latino as mayor of Los Angeles. The mayor had
later been recalled.

Kalvin
seemed to have had no work for the next two years but surfaced next
in Kansas City—in the retinue of a crusading preacher who ran, successfully,
for the Senate, then captured the Republican nomination and the
White House itself. Walter Franz Kalvin, White House Chief of Staff,
was now enjoying the perks of an indispensable man. Pundits had
joked for nearly two centuries about the informal Presidential advisory
groups that functioned parallel with official cabinets, but in Kalvin's
case some wag had dubbed him Rand's entire pantry.

Ramsay
rechecked his notes; yes, Kalvin had switched from Demo to GOP—but
so what? He'd also switched from rhetoric to Air Force intelligence
to electronics to experimental psychology to recording studios,
and finally to politics. It seemed to make no sensible pattern.
Unless you plugged in the wildest tale imaginable, a man who somehow
recovered an electronic device a half-century old with the potential
to persuade people—a hell of a lot of people.

A
man with a master's in electronics could have miniaturized a breadbox-sized
rig of the thirties, especially with
the facilities of a recording studio at his disposal. He
could also have tried his stuff out with the speeches of a mayoral
candidate; evidently with success. And after that, what? Took
your time, didn't you, looking for a likeable cuss who had the right
background, the right voice, and a willingness to be led.

Ramsay
drove back to the studios with more care than usual, viewing himself
objectively as a man who must not come to harm before passing on
what he had. Then he managed somehow to channel his mind toward
the High-jump piece, taking one telephoned interview and making
two appointments.

But
midafternoon found him nosing the yellow Genie off Reservoir Road
toward the Med School library. As promised, Wintoon was waiting.
The very image of an erect, tweedy old lecturer, Broeck Wintoon
kept his white hair cut short, almost military, and Ramsay envied
his tan. Wintoon's long legs easily outpaced Ramsay up a long stair
to an enclosed carrel, both men chatting about family ties as they
went. Once inside the air-conditioned room they moved on to a brief
interchange about uses to which the Pentagon might put the Highjump
program, and the reactions of other nations to the system. Ramsay
unlimbered his little videotaper, got Wintoon to expand on a few
points before a wide-angle lens, the Georgetown U. hospital building
a sturdy background prop through the carrel window.

The
most common response is a waiting line among small nations to piggyback
their own experiments on High-jump vehicles, Wintoon finished,
except for Canada. She's building the orbital dock facility
for the system, so the Canadians are, shall we say, high on the
concept. The gray eyes twinkled with his double entendre,
and Ramsay grinned as he reviewed what he had by fast monitor through
the auxiliary eyepiece.

Perfect,
Ramsay murmured, and slipped the recorder
into a pocket. So much for reality. There's something else,
though. Maybe I should've worn a straitjacket.

Might
cause talk, Wintoon smiled, studying the younger man with
the patient alertness of an old falcon. He stood up and flexed his
arms, then folded them, still looking into Ramsay's eyes. Old
business, or new business? he prompted. The lines around his
pale eyes crinkled in lively curiosity.

New
to me, and goddamned disturbing, Ramsay admitted, and took
a deep breath. Is there any question of, um, domestic political
intrigue so potent that you wouldn't want to hear it?''

Wintoon's
smile grew cool and distant. He hadn't thought in such terms for
years, he replied, but he guessed not. Ramsay asked if the name
Cody Martin rang any bells; Wintoon said no, but he knew hardly
anyone at field agent level these days. Was Martin one of the retired
spooks he'd met at some high-level seminar?

I
gather it's a beard anyway, Ramsay said, without mentioning
the Alden connection, and reached inside his jacket. The guy
sent this to me in care of the Overseas Press Club. It works,
he shrugged.

Good
cutout for sensitive information, Wintoon nodded, accepting
the folded paper, tugging a set of half-glasses from a pocket. He
read without visible reaction for a few moments, then glanced over
the tops of his glasses with an exaggerated lift of both eyebrows.

Ramsay
knew that sign. One raised eyebrow equaled clear skepticism; both
raised meant dangerous ground. He watched the old man sit down,
attention riveted on what he read, scratching absently at loose
folds of skin at his throat.

Wintoon
read to the end, then swiveled in his chair and gazed across the
building tops of Washington for some time. Then: Kalvin,
he muttered, and his smile was accusing.
I watched your 'True Believer' commentary, Alan. This is such
a pat answer, all aside from the, ah...

Wacko
element?

Well—a
sendup, perhaps.

Goering
burned the Reichstag. Hess escaped Germany with a piece of luggage
that was never found or explained, and the Sovs let him rot in Spandau.
Walter Kalvin was in Air Force Intelligence in Germany and speaks
fluent German, did you know that?

Wintoon
shook his head, his gaze expectant.

Kalvin
is bright, nobody denies that; but how many guys get a degree in
rhetoric and then a second one in electronics? Takes extra courses
in psychoacoustics, then spends a few years gimmicking bad music
for teenyboppers in a recording studio?

Facts?

In
his bio, Ramsay shrugged. Then got a latino elected
mayor of L.A., maybe for practice, and finally showed up joined
to Harrison Rand like a Siamese twin before Rand made his political
bid in Missouri. Now this accusation turns up in the secret files
of a murdered Undersecretary of State. You see why I've got sweaty
palms? Wintoon's face was now a study in impassivity, carefully
noncommittal. Ramsay took the letter back, folded it, and continued,
This guy Martin wrote to me because of my big mouth on NBN.
I need a face-to-face with him, and somebody to pass this on to
while I'm still healthy. You'd know whether I should hit on somebody—cabinet
member, one of the Joint Chiefs—who?

Wintoon
had always given clear signals when reluctant to pursue a topic.
This time, he promised pursuit at his own rarefied levels, and also
promised a reply. The old man ended by reassuring Ramsay: however
high the pile of evidence, it was all circumstantial. A real connection
between the murder of Richard Parker and the clout of Walter Kalvin
was a million-to-one shot. Not to worry, Alan.

Ramsay
hurried downstairs with Wintoon, agreeing as they parted that they
must keep in closer touch, assuring Wintoon that little Laurie was
indeed becoming a young lady. Alan Ramsay would have embraced his
mentor had he suspected that this might be the last time he would
ever clasp the hand of the old warrior-savant.

After
feeding the Wintoon interview tape into his active files at the
studios, Ramsay sought more high-tech expertise on Highjump. His
third call turned up a civilian analyst at the nearby Naval Observatory
who was willing to give him an interview. The best time would be
tomorrow, Saturday afternoon, when the major activity on the site
was a basic youth tour—a new public relations gambit stressing the
excitement of space development. Ramsay agreed; rang off wondering
how he would shoehorn the interview into his weekend with Laurie,
and suddenly realized his windfall. Moments later, he had Kathleen
on the telephone.

Nothing
to do with military stuff, he objected to Kathleen's objection.
Basic astronomy, science, orbital industry. We both know Laurie's
a little pacifist, thanks to you. Why not let her decide whether
she wants to go?

There
were blonde voices and brunette voices, he thought, and for a blonde,
Kathleen had a very dark voice when provoked. Why not help
her decide, you mean.

For
a parent, it's no felony. You know how I feel, Kathleen.

You
bet I do, you feel with both hands. Not too bad for an old lecher,
if memory serves. Here it came; at the damnedest times, but
not unwelcome.

Uh,
you could get served, maybe serviced is more like it, tonight, and
I could stay over and take Laurie tomor—

Busy
tonight, she said quickly. Kathleen always
resorted to quick telegraphic phrases when hoping to pass
over something. A date, no doubt, with some schmuck she wouldn't
let into bed. But she'd dazzle him, get herself primed, and then
use Ramsay to pump her empty a day later.

Well,
it could be worse; the other way around, for example. So when
can I be of service, madame?

She
took the cue, saying she would play the madame on Saturday night,
and he jollied her into putting Laurie on the phone extension, feeling
as if he'd peddled his cock for the privilege. Then Laurie came
on-line, faintly surly as usual when he hadn't called for a day
or so. All right, three days. Is that a crime? He knew
that in Laurie's statutes, it was. Hi, pudd'n. How would you
like a live multimedia show after lunch tomorrow?

If
you have time, she said, making him come to her.

He
did: Pudd'n, I couldn't call earlier, he slurred, courting
the damn kid with kid talk, powerless with his own daughter. Then
he invented a reason for not calling, a story so patently and transparently
false that Laurie was soon giggling, helping him invent it. By then,
he knew that Laurie would be stumping her plump eleven-year-old
buns off at the U.S. Naval Observatory the next day, while he ducked
out for half an hour to tape an interview.

And
by then, as weekend traffic began to clog highway arterials in the
nation's capital, Professor T. Broeck Wintoon had begun to inquire
about the Martin letter; very cautious, wise inquiries near the
very top of the old-boy network, although he knew that caution and
wisdom are pale qualities in the beam of raw power.

Kalvin,
who seldom put in less than a twelve-hour day between the White
House and this office he had requisitioned on the third floor of
the Executive Office Building, was not surprised when his own secretary's
chime sounded on his desk intercom
at seven p.m. Millicent knew better than to leave before he did.
The surprise was that this particular caller was standing in her
office.

Certainly,
let him in, Millie. Oh, I'll lock up tonight. I'll bet you've got
some man waiting. You be on time Monday, he added.

Thank
you, sir, was the dulcet response. Millie might be as unlovely
as snow tries, but she had a voice cultured by generations of Virginians
and she knew when she was being told to get lost. The door snicked
and Kalvin stood up as his caller walked in.

The
first thing Kalvin said was, Was this wise? You could have
called by scrambler.

Not
for this, Unruh said, sitting down unbidden as though made
of some brittle substance. Terminal action always takes a
face-to-face, Walt.

Have
a drink? You're looking good, Kalvin remarked, turning toward
his ornate bar cabinet.

I
look like the wrath of God and you know it, said the CIA deputy.
This fucking hairpiece doesn't fit, and I wonder why I let
them do the chemotherapy anyhow. Nothing for me, thanks, he
waved the notion aside as Kalvin raised a bottle aloft.

What's
this about terminal action? Kalvin asked, dropping ice into
his scotch, sitting down with robotic precision. Privately he admitted
that Terry Unruh looked like bloody hell, his blonde hairpiece failing
to match the remaining wisps of gray at his ears, the lank frame
more cadaverous each time he saw the man. But Unruh knew how to
keep a bargain, staying on the job as long as he could stand up,
satisfied with the weekly deposits to the Bermuda bank because they
would serve as a magnificent widow's pension.

One
of my colleagues sent a rocket up my arse not a half-hour ago. There's
an ex-Company man, an academic near
retirement, zeroing in on Parker and connecting us with him. I don't
know the old boy's source.

His
posture frozen, Kalvin said it as a simple fact: We have to
find out. Fast.

Apparently
the old fellow hinted that major media is asking. He knows everybody
in this town so it could be anybody.

Shit.
Just when we think we've put a lid on it, Kalvin said into
his glass. Okay: you must have a cure, or you wouldn't be
here.

You
could call it a cure: surgery. I have the scalpel en route from
Quebec. Foreign, plausibly deniable, and a very, very subtle interrogator.
Doesn't leave marks. Unruh cocked his head, regarding Kalvin
without pleasure: Did you know that the most terrifying thing
a man can feel is slow asphyxiation? Utter panic sets in, you have
to see it to—

That's
enough, said Kalvin. You do what you have to, and so
do I.

I
wonder about that, Unruh murmured.

Wonder
and be damned, said Kalvin, so long as you provide for
your family, and that means providing a few things for me.
He took a long appreciative sip. Do I know your, ah, expendable
academic?

A
shrug. Name's Wintoon; moderately strong profile in some circles.
But we may be looking at some really high profiles, maybe
in media.

For
that you have to bring in an outsider?

Some
things the Company can do. Some, it subcontracts to certain provider
groups. A few things, the Company just doesn't condone, and my assets
on this are three people, four if you count this Canadian mercenary,
because you wanted to keep it small and manageable. The Quebec scalpel
does things nobody wants to know about, but you can bet two things.
He'll be sanitary, and he won't terminate the interview until he
gets all there is to get,

Unruh
said in tones that were dead flat. I can call it off, of course.
I'm here to get your orders.

Kalvin
studied the features of the dying Unruh through the flat facets
of his glass. The pale face remained mask-like, but Walter Kalvin
felt a sudden intuition about what was going on behind that mask
as Unruh, with the effort of an exhausted man, stood up. Terence
Unruh would probably much rather terminate Kalvin himself than have
it done to some doddering old onetime spook. Then do what's
necessary, Terry. Just make absolutely certain you get to the root
of this. We can't start laying waste to everybody in Washington.
And get back to me as soon as you have the results of the, um, operation.
By scrambler. I'll be here.

Unruh
nodded; turned toward the door.

Oh,
and Terry? The man stopped at Kalvin's words, twisting at
the waist as if too tired to take extra steps. Don't come
here again. You do look like the wrath of God, that's a fact. You
take away a man's appetite.

Thank
you very much, your Excellency, said Unruh as he moved through
the doorway.

Alone,
Kalvin tapped his teeth against the edge of his glass and checked
his watch. He'd have time for a good dinner, something light with
a sparkling wine, maybe pick up a historical novel from the Waldenbooks
place on the mall, and then return to the office. He felt certain
that even Unruh's deniable scalpel would not be operating at full
speed before dark.

SIX

Late
in the evening, Ramsay
hauled a snack from the
kitchen microwave unit and took it back to his half-read book in
Laurie's room, which doubled as his study since the divorce. He'd
had the choice of a ballet, a party, or an evening with the book.
A good party outranked most books, but not the three G's, Goddard,
Goldman and Greenleaf; and a leg man with Ramsay's eye would only
have been frustrated by ballerinas. He picked up the Goddard paperback
and succumbed to its sinister influence, and cursed himself for
jumping when the phone jangled at his elbow.

Yes,
he said, giving nothing away. Then: Did the station give you
this number?—I did?—Oh, right, I did, he agreed, suddenly
beaming. Damned right he had, not expecting her to call. That party
at Ynga Lindermann's over a month before; he'd seen Pamela Garza
among public relations people a couple of times but never knew her
name until that party. Well, now.... No, Pam, I really
meant it. Soccer's a favorite of mine, give me the Diplomats
over the Redskins any day.''

Pam
Garza sounded more sunny and less smoky than she looked, if his
memory was accurate. I have passes to watch this Bolivian
guy's try-outs with the Dips. Very hush-hush, she said, tentatively,
almost shyly, with a soft southwest drawl.

Don't
miss it, he advised, and listened for a moment. Me?
Uh, yeah, love to. And I'll spring for a bite to eat afterward,
quid pro quo—so long as I don't have to wear a tie.
Why the hell do I always have to say dumb things like that?

It's
a deal, she laughed. Tomorrow afternoon at three.

Wups.
No, wait, we can make it if you don't mind a third party. My kid,
Laurie; she spends alternate weekends with me.

There's
always another woman, she said with a theatrical sigh. Actually,
I'd be honored, Alan. We can meet at RFK Stadium, main entrance,
they said. Marvelous, she added. He had been about to say
that himself.

Ramsay
thanked her and put the phone down near the fake poppies on the
desk—Laurie's present, her 'forever flowers,' a false gaity to brighten
the room she had vacated. Hell, he muttered, suddenly
remembering that he'd promised Kathleen a therapeutic lay on Saturday
night. But Pamela Garza was not likely to be in the picture after
dinner, certainly not with Laurie in tow. Whatthehell. If this lovely
southwest praline got him excited, Kathleen would be the
beneficiary. Titty for tatty. He picked up the Goddard, smiling,
and congratulated himself for staying home that night.

Saturday
began well when he drove to Kathleen's place, she smirking sexily
and mistaking his guilty look—he said nothing about gorgeous Garza—for
restrained lust as they shared
herb tea in her Georgetown condo. God damn but he hated
herb tea! Ramsay wondered if there was any better tip-off to the
belief that all nations truly wanted freedom, peace, and equality
than a weakness for frigging herb tea. He was too canny to wonder
out loud. Kathleen wore smart gray slacks and low heels, knowing
he liked skirts and high heels, probably certain that he was a conquest
regardless of what she wore.

Then
Laurie whirlwinded down from her room with a single overnight bag,
scissored her legs around his waist as he lifted her, smothered
him with an innocent, frantic kiss-kiss, and all but dragged him
out of the condo. Her blonde ponytail was the same, but the apple
cheeks were losing some baby fat and she was growing relentlessly
taller. In two years, he joked with Kathleen, the kid would need
a steamer trunk for a weekend and would take her majesty's sweet
time coming down a flight of stairs.

You
always liked a girl to take her time, said Kathleen, reaching
slender arms overhead in a languid stretch that tightened the fabric
over her breasts.

He
laughed, advising her to hold that thought, while Laurie tugged
him toward the Genie.

Saturday
seemed to get better when, after shopping, he left Laurie with a
harried tour guide at the Naval Observatory. Because the analyst,
a dour Carolinian from Scotland Neck, gave a hell of an interview
with hand-held models at his desk. A Highjump vehicle, he showed,
was dedicated to a very special orbit to serve the space station.
The laser-boost needed accumulated energy and could not cycle the
vehicles much faster than one every hour; a possible weapon against
one target, but wholly impractical as a mass bombardment system.
Ramsay put away his video recorder and went to find Laurie's tour
group, feeling better about Highjump and world peace as well.

Laurie,
ponytail swinging, bounced away with him to
the parking lot, chattering of her new-found interest. Joo
know, Dad, I could kick a ball a mile on the moon?

Did
you know, pudd'n, that we barely have time for a slice
of pizza before you watch the Diplomats try out a new forward from
Bolivia who can probably kick a soccer ball clean around the moon?
She squealed with delight. Despite Kathleen's best efforts to make
Laurie intolerant of any kind of violence, the girl played grade-school
soccer with the total abandon of a mounted Cossack.

As
she wolfed pizza, Ramsay fed her the itinerary, carefully casual
when he mentioned Pam Garza. Laurie could bridle at the idea of
his keeping company with strange women. Breeding will tell,
he thought. She's a natural competitor, like her old man.

He
let Laurie toot the Genie's horn in the Mass Ave underpass and,
near Union Station, noticed a dun Ford Probe behind him. Hadn't
he seen one just like it in the parking lot of the pizza joint?
A Probe lacked the visual pizazz and the nitrous oxide injection
kick of his Genie, but with the right equipment it was one hell
of a machine; maybe the best choice you could make when trailing
a maneuverable Genie in traffic.

He
waltzed the yellow Genie through the congestion onto Independence,
grimly aware that the Probe was still visible in his rearview. He
refused to change his plans, drove to the huge lot of RFK Stadium,
and saw the Probe commit to the bridge leading to Capitol Heights.
Someone had a map unfolded in the passenger seat; almost certainly
tourists. Or passing for tourists. Stop it, fool, he chided
himself. They'll be chasing you with a butterfly net any day
now.

At
first sight of Pamela Garza, Laurie slitted her eyes as if keying
on a goalie. Black loafers, denim skirt, high-collar white cotton
blouse of a silken sheen almost as sleek as Pam's long black hair
which she wore in a loose bun. Her dark eyes shining under luxuriant
brow arches, Pam traded a smiling
glance with Ramsay that suggested she would take a child's jealousy
with aplomb.

Once
inside the echoing corridors of the stadium: Hey, I need to
find the powder room, Pam announced, adding, I could
use company, Laurie.

Laurie
went with her, still standoffish, but returned five minutes later
chatting with Pam as if they were old friends. Ramsay caught Pam's
wink as they filed into the lower tiers of the stadium, and wondered
if a shared pissoir made sisters of them all. The woman
knew her soccer, delighting Laurie with tales of the sport back
at the University of New Mexico. As well as the day had begun, it
seemed to keep getting better; the Bolivian gave a heady demonstration
of his skills on the field.

We
can sure use him, Pam enthused later as they strolled toward
the parking lot. Laurie, did you see how—what's wrong, Alan;
forget something?

Ramsay
patted his pockets convincingly, with a slow turn as if to retrace
his steps. If that brown Ford had been a rough tail, there might
be a smooth one following them out of the stadium, but no one followed
them. He shrugged off the feeling and said he'd found his keys after
all, smiling down at his companions.

Pam,
suddenly: Laurie, do you get a crick in your neck from looking
up at your dad?

Sometimes.
But I can jump up on him and you better not, Laurie said artlessly.

No
fear, Pam said, her laugh unfeigned and throaty. But
I can wear heels and you better not, missy. That's my Honda,
she pointed to a dusty red coupe. I'll go over and fix myself
up. Why don't you two drive that yellow lightning bolt over and
collect me?

Walking
hand-in-hand to the Genie, the two Ramsays spoke of food, of Bolivians,
and only once of Pam. She says her company has the government
for a client. What's a client?

Somebody
who gives you a job, but you don't work for them all the time,
Ramsay said. Practically every company in Washington could
say that, pudd'n.

Like
NBN?

He
chuckled and squeezed her hand. Not yet, but they're trying,
he said. They're always trying. He did not expand on
the idea, nor mention this Federal Media Council foolishness that
most media were watching cautiously. Even if the council became
law, he reflected, it probably would not exert any more power than
the defunct Federal Communications Commission had.

Laurie
brought him back to the present with, She's pretty. But I
like her, explaining volumes with the 'but.'

As
Ramsay pulled up beside the red Honda, Pam stowed something, perhaps
an extra compact, in her glove box and exited the car with a flash
of turquoise. Now she wore spaghetti-strap heels and a kerchief
side-tied at her throat, all of a blue to complement the skirt and
Pam's natural Latina color. Ramsay caught Laurie studying his face
for reaction and hid his awe with, It's never too early to
think of food. It was much too early, he added silently, to
be ogling Pam Garza as if she were dessert.

Then
they argued, hilariously. Pam suggested La Nicoise.

Ramsay,
flicking his open collar: No tie, remember? And I deeply mistrust
any meal served by a waiter on roller skates. He suggested
Beowulf Pub.

There's
enough Beowulf in you already, Pam teased. How about
Old Budapest?

Laurie:
Do they have cheeseburgers?

Ramsay:
Probably, with an unpronounceable name and seven surly gypsy
fiddlers. Isn't it halfway to Dulles?

Halfway
to Dallas, Pam admitted, and pointed a finger at
Laurie's nose. You, she accused, have probably
never had a buffaloburger. Betcha. And you, sir, have never had
a choice of two hundred beers.

Not
at one sitting, he hedged, but there's always a first
time. So they drove nearly to Georgetown and ate at the Brickskellar,
a family saloon with a game room that kept Laurie squandering half-dollars
long after dinner.

In
that time he sketched some of his background for Pam, including
his boyhood on a Nebraska farm and his entry into media as a sports
announcer. He claimed the blame for his divorce, saying that Laurie
made all his mistakes worthwhile.

He
learned in turn that the Garzas had sharecropped near Tucumcari,
and that Pam's revolt against tradition had included leaving the
Catholic Church. I'm not sure whether I'm a Methodist or a
Baptist, she laughed. I've tried both.

Working
her way through school in Albuquerque, Pam said, she had then worked
her way up the ladder of a local public relations firm and, offered
a chance at similar work in the nation's capital, she had leaped
at it. She also alluded to a youthful affair with an older man in
Albuquerque an alliance that he soon broke off with the genuine
mixed emotions of a family man. I was dumb, of course,
she added, and he was dumber, but really a sweet man. I had
no idea how important he'd—ah, well. No regrets, Alan. And
adeptly, she changed the subject.

Then
Laurie was standing at their booth. Five more bucks,
she promised, and I can beat the golem.

You
are the golem, he said. Isn't that a lot of
shooting, kid? I thought it was against your principles.

It's
not real, Dad. She had always called him 'Daddy.' Was it possible
that the girl was maturing before his very eyes? She cocked her
head and looked at the adults in turn, then leaned like a bartender
on the table. 'Course, I could play World Cup against Pam
on your set at home, for nuthin'.

Pam,
mirth dancing across her high cheekbones, made her face deadpan:
You train her to say these things?

Absolutely.
Start 'em early, sez I.

She
made her eyes huge, innocent, and whispered, Shameless.
And then agreed, on condition that they detour to pick up her car
at the stadium. As he was peeling off bills for the tab for honest-to-God
buffalo steaks and classic Kulmbacher beer, Pam said, It just
occurred to me: you big TV stars have to get up very early. Maybe
we should do this another time?

She
was making it easy to disengage—and Jesus, what about Kathleen?
Well, screw Kathleen, or rather unscrew her, unless Pam left early.
There was no question in his mind about dalliance at his place,
not with Laurie there, and he didn't give a damn because this delightful
woman affected him like champagne. He wouldn't abandon the bubbles
just yet, and as they squeezed into the Genie, he told her the evening
was young. He promised himself that he would simply have to call
Kathleen later.

Laurie,
to his surprise, wanted to ride with Pam. He let her, laughing to
himself as he spotted the Honda following him to Hyattsville because
now he had a tail who was really tail, if he wanted to
be raunchy about it. And he did, and he didn't; Pam seemed the kind
of forthright good woman who made a man ashamed of his own readiness,
but ready nonetheless. Using hand signals, he directed Pam to park
behind him at his garage and then walked them to his place, easing
into their argument on Great Video Games I Have Known once inside
the apartment.

Laurie
proved the more knowledgeable player, defeating her father and Pam
in turn until Ramsay finally edged her at Pele. I'm sleepy,
is all, she excused her loss. Okay if I crash, Dad?

You
were double-teamed, kid, he said, hugging her and grinning
as Pam got a quick hug too. He poured skim milk for them all and
took a razzing from Pam on the spartan contents of his refrigerator.

Next
time you raid that fridge, Laurie, she said as
the girl headed for the study, once her own bedroom, grab
a baseball bat for the attack of the mold monster in there.

Weapons
are un-American, Laurie recited seriously, and yawned off
to bed.

Now,
there goes a well-rounded liberal, Pam said.

Ten
pounds too well-rounded, Ramsay responded. Pam assured him
that Laurie would lose her chunkiness, watching him at his coffee
making game, applauding softly as he managed it in forty-three seconds,
closer to the record. You inspired me, he said. Maybe
there's life after forty, at that.

Think
of years as seasoning. I do, she said. And kissed her fingertip
and placed it against the tip of his nose.

If
Saturday had worn well, it only improved after late coffee. Pam
showed him what happened when marshmallows were briefly microwaved,
sprinkling walnuts on the grossly swollen puffs of sweet nothing,
enmeshing her small fingers in strands of goo to feed him a bite.
He found one edible strand stretching from her lips to his, and
they vied for it, and the kiss began with shared merriment but quickly
turned solemn. The kisses that followed were sweeter, he said, than
warm marshmallow.

And
a whole lot less caloric, she said, her smile faltering.
I don't usually, uh—

Fool
around, he supplied. He was nuzzling her throat at the time.

When
a woman says that, no one believes it, she said, her hands
in his hair, wriggling with pleasure. Especially when it's
true. No, I was going to say I'm not usually one for the fast quip
and toujours gai.

I'm
not sure I care. But why are you doing it, then?

I—guess
I didn't expect you to be so uh, compatible, dammit! It scares me
a little. A lot. Here I am hiding behind repartee, because it's
not as dangerous as honesty but
it's not as satisfying, either. She thrust her fine breasts
against his hands.

Now
he was stroking her nipples gently through her blouse, gazing into
her face, their open mouths touching as they breathed in unison.
He said, I want to do something with you that is very, very
satisfying, if I can get my goddamn couch unfolded.

So
do I, so do I. She crooned it in bittersweet agony. But
I will not do it tonight. Don't look at me like that, she
pleaded. If you have any idea how possessive a young girl
can be, you can imagine how Laurie would hate me if she walked in
on us. I want her to like me, Alan!

He
had not removed his hands. This wouldn't bother her?

With
the pleading, a wicked smile. Kissing she might handle. Fondling,
maybe. If we go onto that couch, Alan, I get a triple-X rating.

He
let his hands fall away, touched her hair which had fallen to a
cascade over her shoulders. Bitch, he said fondly. You're
right, sure, of course. I want her to like you, too. Shit, hell,
damnation. I wanted you for breakfast tomorrow.

I
want you right now. For a midnight snack. And I promise—ah, you
meant to have breakfast.

You'll
drive me berserk. Yeah, pancakes, bacon, all that domestic crap.

She
drew her hands slowly from his shoulders, letting her formidable
nails rake gently down his pectorals, then took his hands in hers.
Nothing could be simpler, but I've got to go now. For the
sake of all three of us. I'll be back around mid-morning. For breakfast;
the three of us. Okay?

With
mingled longing and anticipation, he agreed; helped her collect
her things, enjoyed a head-swimmer of a kiss at his front door and
listened to the tic-tac of her quick
footfalls to the sidewalk. Then he steeled himself for a call to
his ex-wife.

Kathleen
was an iced vitriol cocktail on the phone, but accepted his story
that he'd been interviewing a woman and yes, Laurie had been with
them constantly.

He
put down the kitchen phone extension, wondering if a bourbon-and-water
would make him sleepy enough. The sooner he slept, the less time
he would spend waiting for Pamela Garza. One helluva day, he decided,
was Saturday. Could Sunday fail to be better?

He
seldom remembered, later, how well Sunday began, with Laurie setting
the table and mixing batter while waiting for Pam's arrival; because
it all turned to ashes when he began to scan the Sunday paper.

'Georgetown
Savant Succumbs' might have been anyone, but it was Broeck Wintoon.
Found by housekeeper, blah, blah; apparent heart attack at his Chevy
Chase house, blah, blah; history of heart trouble, survived by sons,
and so on; for years a respected figure, decades of service, author
of, et cetera. Stunned, Ramsay walked to his study like
an automaton and tried every channel, cursing each sermon and commercial,
then calling his own station.

The
paper had it all, evidently. Wintoon's seizure must have come on
Friday evening, some hours after their meeting. Was there any chance
that Ramsay's mad scenario could have brought it on? But hell, the
old man had spoken of cocktails at his club, and a follow-up at
leisure. Ramsay was calling an order for a wreath when Laurie answered
the door buzzer. It was Pam Garza, with a bottle of crackling non-alcoholic
cider.

Pam
glanced his way and, misreading his face, assumed guilt. I've
brought some—oh, Alan, did we make a mistake?

He
finished the call, took the bottle from Pam, and hugged her while
Laurie frowned at the mystery. When he
showed them the paper and explained, Pam seemed relieved.
If you'd like to talk, I'm a good listener, she said,
starting to share the breakfast chores.

He
remained morose until halfway through the pancakes. I need
to talk to somebody, he admitted then, but I don't want
to involve you.

Let
me worry about that, Alan. I'm not a schoolgirl.

Laurie,
around a syrupy mouthful: What's wrong with schoolgirls?

Not
a thing, honey. But your dad's responsible for you, and I'm responsible
for me. Never forget that, she said in Ramsay's direction.

He
nodded, realizing that Pam Garza was a woman of great pride and
self-confidence. Then he told her of his long friendship with Broeck
Wintoon.

Later,
while walking off their meal in a nearby park and watching Laurie
pump great arcs on a child's swing, Pam remarked, I'm terribly
sorry this man's death hit you so hard.

It
might not have, he sighed, if I didn't feel that I might've
put some stress on him. I picked up an unsubstantiated rumor and
asked him about it last Friday. Can't pass it on now. Sorry, but
that's the way it is.

Surely
you can't blame yourself for an old man's heart attack!

It
was the kind of rumor that spreads guilt around, he said glumly.

Not
around you and me, she teased, then saw the long, level look
he gave her. I see; maybe we should talk about something else.

So
they ambled back to Laurie and proposed a late lunch. Without spoken
agreement, the two adults accepted that theirs was to be a conventional
courtship, and that it had already begun. Laurie, to Ramsay's surprise,
seemed to accept it without rancor.

Pam
left them after lunch and, when dropping Laurie
off, Ramsay had a brief, defensive talk with Kathleen. He
niced himself out in that exchange and did not recover his on-camera
affability until shortly before the broadcast.

Afterward,
he sped home at a pace that risked a ticket, wondering if his answering
machine would have a call from Pam. He found her parked at his garage,
dozing, listening to music behind the wheel of the red Honda.

Ushering
her into his apartment he asked, Do you realize that I haven't
even scrubbed off my makeup or taken off this stupid tie?

I
shouldn't be so predictable, she purred, and helped him with
the tie. Good luck charm or not, she said, that tie had seen better
days. But as it turned out, Alan Ramsay had never known a better
night.

It
had been many years since a young woman had turned Ramsay's priorities
upside down, but he could not deny the facts. He did not attend
Wintoon's funeral, and begrudged the time spent on his profession.
For a few days and nights he suffered the symptoms of a benign disease
best known among the young: romantic love.

Most
of his waking moments, he felt feverish. He forgot appointments,
changed his mouthwash, cleaned his refrigerator out, and bought
new shorts. He changed his sheets every morning and Scotchgarded
his couch. And every night he and Pam Garza soiled everything again
after late, light dinners, playing out their mutual fantasies.

Monday
she became his 'casual' pickup in an Ethiopian restaurant in the
Adams-Morgan district, but he failed the charade after she asked
about Laurie. Tuesday they devoured seafood at the Pompano, later
devouring each other on his couch. Wednesday she entered his apartment
wearing savage spike heels and, he soon learned, a garter belt in
deference to a kink he'd admitted. She wanted him submissive for
once, or so she thought, but joyously abandoned the idea after five
minutes of satiation with her fully
clothed and him dutifully naked. Some victim you are,
she said with a pretend pout. I don't think you care who's
having who.

He
agreed, rolling her over. By the time they fell asleep Wednesday
night, each knew virtually every sexual provocation that delighted
the other, and they spoke fervently of love. Yet, while Pamela Garza
could navigate his apartment in the dark, he still had never seen
the Washington apartment she shared with another young career woman.
He knew everything she wanted him to know, and nothing more.

He
did remember to call Laurie Wednesday evening. He would always treasure
that call.

Thursday
morning at the studios, he signed for a slender package brought
by one of the private messenger services so popular in Washington.
Those messengers were sometimes slow to deliver but they were very,
very private, and they had not received the package in the mail
until Tuesday.

Inside
the package was a microcassette from Broeck Wintoon. Ramsay locked
his cubicle, stuffed the tiny cassette into his pocket memocomp
with fingers that shook, and stuck the playback unit's earpiece
in his ear before playing the tape.

Over
the faint background hiss, Wintoon's voice: Well, my lad,
I just happened across someone who should know about, shall we say,
the sinister machinations of Professor Henry Higgins. And I just
happened to bring up your little zinger. Amazing what the old-boy
net can do. Apparently the elders have heard the rumor, and we both
know they have their own lackeys in trenchcoats.

The
rumor is without foundation—I'm almost sorry to say, the voice
chuckled. But of course I'm relieved, really. Otherwise, all
weekend I'd be cudgeling this old head over it, instead of enjoying
my new Grumman canoe. More likely, I'll be swimming in Deep Creek
Lake, depending on how well
I remember how to handle a one-man rig.

My
Lord, how I drone on! At any rate, just thought I'd pop
this off to you before I leave. By the way, this messenger service
is a pretty fair cutout too. Remind me to give you their address.
And any time I can help, I'm happy to. Be well.

Ramsay
hid his face in his hands during the second playback, half in grief,
half in concentration. The old man had loved double entendres and
jargon. By 'elders' he meant the National Security Council itself.
Evidently his informant had been someone attached to that august
group, someone well-entrenched in the pipeline, perhaps CIA.

And
the Henry Higgins reference had to be from Shaw's play, Pygmalion;
the speech teacher who had groomed a student all too well with
recording machines—which explained the phrase, 'sinister machinations.'
How like Wintoon to discharge a responsibility to a friend, and
by a devious route, before charging off to his cabin in western
Maryland.

At
least, thought Ramsay during his third playback, Broeck Wintoon
hadn't sounded edgy or harried. Surely the fatal seizure was not
connected with the favor he'd done. Ramsay slipped the microcorder
into his pocket and hurried back to the organized bedlam of the
studio, leaving one corner of his mind to chew on this message from
Broeck Wintoon's grave.

Ramsay
was walking off his lunch, watching a frail old woman perform an
act of great courage in hurrying across a Washington boulevard,
when that tiny mental corner spewed out what he should have realized
on Sunday morning. Old Wintoon had set a hot pace up and down those
library stairs when an elevator was handy. And canoeing, with a
history of heart trouble? Not fucking likely! Wintoon had been a
cautious man, and his physical pace would have been plain insanity
for a man who knew he had a heart
problem. Maybe his heart had stopped, but had the stoppage been
natural?

No,
by God, Ramsay said aloud, and hurried back to his office.

He
made a spot decision and called the office of General Nels Magnuson
from his office phone. Legal fictions aside, joint chiefs weren't
all equal but the Army's Magnuson was the only chief Ramsay had
ever got drunk with after NATO exercises. Magnuson was not in, but
an aide who valued media was happy to help and made the usual promises.
Ramsay rang off, pocketed spare microcassettes for his memocomp,
and took another walk.

In
the mall parking lot fifty yards from the NBN studios, an unmarked
utility van resounded faintly with an internal knock. The van driver
craned his head to peer back into the gloom. Got something?

He
just called a general at the Pentagon, Bobby.

About
what?

Wouldn't
say, but my stress analyzer says he's climbing walls. The general
was out. Do we wait 'til he's in?

Christ,
no! But call it in, first, Harman. If we move without clearance
it's your ass and mine both.

The
van thrummed away half a block from where Alan Ramsay sat, the Genie's
top sealed as he murmured into his memocomp.

SEVEN

Ramsay's
revelation took up less than one complete cassette. He did not refer
to Martin or Alden by name though poor Wintoon could no longer be
harmed, and his name added credibility. Ramsay edited the tape until,
step by step, he built a damning circumstantial case. Harrison Rand
might be simon pure, and Walter Kalvin an angel of guidance, but
some nameless force was ruthlessly seeking the carriers of that
rumor. If Alan Ramsay was not already on an erasure list, he expected
to get there soon.

He
made a copy of the tape before leaving his car and hurried back
to the studios seeking postage. In each of the two padded envelopes
he placed a tiny cassette with a note: TO BE MADE PUBLIC IN THE
EVENT OF MY DEATH, DISAPPEARANCE OR DISABILITY, signed with his
legal signature. Luckily he'd entered Alden's address into the memory
of his pocket memocomp. It was not
luck but premonition that made him leave his name off the studio's
return address.

He
entrusted the second envelope to the nightly news producer, cautioning
Irv to squirrel it away at home and forget it until the day he,
Ramsay, became conspicuously unable to do NBN's work. Irv merely
nodded, folded the envelope into an inside coat pocket, and made
a wry comment about threats from jealous husbands. Ramsay did not
enlighten him; the people Broeck Wintoon had contacted did not seem
to deal much in threats.

Ramsay
had thought himself calm and controlled for his segment of the evening
news, describing the plight of Costa Rican families whose sons fought
on the Nicaraguan border while death squads stalked those families.
Then, unbidden, his mind flashed: Holy God, there are death
squads nearer than Costa Rica; they could gun down my daughter,
and viewers saw Alan Ramsay struggle through an instant of
what seemed to be sudden stage-fright. He overcame it with rigid
self-control, completed his piece, then ran for the nearest telephone.

He
reached Kathleen's recorder and blurted, Kathleen, you and
Laurie could be in terrible danger! For all I know your line is
bugged. Grab the kid now, right this minute, and, and oh
hell, uh, you know where I proposed? Go there and wait for me to
page you or meet you! No police; I'll explain later. Listen, Kathleen:
if you still have that little snub-nose equalizer, take it with
you—and don't trust any strangers! I apologize to you both,
and I'm sorry for this and, and I'll make it up to you. But do it
right now, this instant! 'Bye.

He
rejected several plans while flogging the Genie toward Kathleen's
place. He knew where Laurie's key was hidden. Once inside the condo
he could reach Kathleen by phone if she was at work. And he would
ransack every drawer until he found the little Smith Wesson
she claimed to hate so much. But Ramsay double-parked
behind a Metro Police cruiser and, sprinting to the condo,
knew he was too late.

Even
as he showed his ID to the uniformed cop at the door, he saw past
the man's shoulder. Kathleen Ramsay lay sprawled within a neatly
taped outline on her living room carpet while a plainclothesman
circled her with a video unit. My daughter, he croaked,
ignoring the man's question, then shouting: Laurie! Laurie,
pudd'n! Where's my kid?

Lieutenant
Wayne Corwin, Third District, was a rectangular balding man who
dealt well, if brusquely, with stunned citizens. He introduced himself
and warned Ramsay against touching the pathetic slender shape that
lay face down on the carpet. The only way you can help her
now is to let us do our jobs, he said.

Then
he ushered Ramsay away from the protocols of Homicide forensics
and into Kathleen's kitchen. Even though Kathleen had fought, there
was very little blood. Both of her head wounds, said Corwin, were
probably from a silenced twenty-two caliber handgun at point-blank
range because no one had heard shots. Did the victim own such
a piece, Mr. Ramsay?

I
don't think so. A thirty-two revolver, if she still has it. My daughter
Laurie: where is she?

A
long studied silence before Corwin said, We hoped you might
tell us. There's no ransom note.

Ramsay
slumped against the wall, flooded with weakness and nausea. Oh
God, oh Laurie— And then he decided that he must be very careful
talking to Corwin. He rubbed his hands, which had become icy, and
stammered out a hope that Laurie could be somewhere safe.

I'd
like to think so, Corwin sighed, and told Ramsay the worst.
Moments after a neighbor heard a woman's screams from the condo,
two men had been seen lugging a big plastic garbage can from the
condo to a double-parked van.
Unless Mrs. Ramsay owned any heavy art objects? That's a possibility.

Ramsay
shook his head. Can you trace the van?

There
was always hope, said Corwin. You could help if you have any
idea why the girl might be taken. Beside the obvious ransom motive,
of course.

For
all I know, this guy is a direct pipeline to Laurie's captors, Ramsay
thought. Invigorated by anger at the idea, he looked into Corwin's
eyes. In my business you make enemies, he conceded.

Including
ex-wives who have custody?

Ramsay:
You can go—sorry. Kathleen and I get along. Got along,
he amended, and squeezed his eyes shut from the pain of it. I
see Laurie often. Why the hell would I kidnap my own kid?

It
happens, Corwin said gently. Then you deny that you
and the deceased had recently quarreled over custody?

Damn'
right I deny it! Oh, sometimes we argued about this weekend or that,
or where I took Laurie. My God, be reasonable, I'm not—

Homicide
and kidnapping in broad daylight aren't reasonable crimes, usually,
Corwin interrupted. I gave you a chance to tell me what happened
here. You know, but you're not helping. What am I supposed to think,
Mr. Ramsay?

Whispered:
I don't know. Then more strongly: I just want
my kid back. I'll say anything, or not say anything; whatever it
takes to have my daughter safe, Ramsay pleaded.

Corwin
rubbed his nose as he studied the distraught father standing before
him. I don't think you set this up deliberately, but you knew
you had big trouble before you got here. What kind of trouble?

Of
course, Ramsay thought: the
phone recorder! I'm,
not sure. I've had some—threats, indirect threats, really,
and during a telecast
today I realized that someone could go after my family instead of
coming directly to me.

But
you didn't call nine-one-one and tell us, Corwin persisted.

I
couldn't. I still can't. I left a message for Kathleen so I could—hell,
I don't know. Protect them myself, I guess.

Corwin
lifted one corner of his mouth without really smiling. A man
wouldn't do brain surgery on his family, but he'll try to do a cop's
job. Pause. Where did you expect to meet them?

A
scrubby little McDonald's, a couple of miles from here. I figured
they could hide in plain sight.

Corwin:
You proposed to your wife at a greasetrap?

It
was her best proof of my proletarian tastes, Ramsay said,
and the two exchanged the wan smiles of men whose wives had never
quite house-broken them to elegance.

From
that point on, their interchanges became warmer. Corwin agreed that,
at this point, publicity could not help Laurie. For that matter,
the Metro Police could truthfully say they had no real proof the
girl had been abducted. But Ramsay, said Corwin, was no pro at dealing
with kidnappers. It was impossible to overstress the importance
of getting in touch, and keeping records. The police would be contacting
Ramsay again, sorry but police work had its rituals, one being that
victims were encouraged to cooperate with the police; was that clear?

When
Ramsay moved from the kitchen he saw that Kathleen's body had been
removed so quietly, so professionally, he hadn't known when they
did it. She belonged to them, now. So did he, if they chose. And
Laurie: whose chattel had she become? He seemed to be moving in
a very exclusive circle now, in which he alone was an amateur in
matters of sudden death.

En
route to his apartment, Ramsay began to think clearly
again. Committing a murder, then taking Laurie from a Georgetown
condominium during rush hour, was itself a message of power—and
of restraint. It would've been simpler just to kill her. And they
would kill without hesitation, had perhaps fired two bullets into
Kathleen's head for no better reason than to prove it. They'd get
in touch with Ramsay to make their demands, no doubt about that.
And by this time, they might have taps on his phones at home as
well as at the studios. So might the Metropolitan Police—and
they might be working together. I'm bucking the White House, he
thought. Christ, there was almost no limit how wide a net could
be cast from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue!

But
the operative word was 'almost.' Ramsay knew a little about electronic
bugging, had researched it for telecasts, but thought it unlikely
that the National Security Agency's automated monitors would identify
him from random phone booths. It might depend on what he said.

He
swung the Genie around Logan Circle, shot away and drove to Glenwood
Cemetery where he watched for surveillance before doubling back.
It seemed that he was not being followed, but perhaps they no longer
considered it necessary. With Laurie as bait, they could reel Alan
Ramsay in anytime they liked.

He
parked at Gallaudet College and got a fistful of change from Student
Services, but had to place the call from off-campus. He reached
Matthew Alden's home recorder but this time, no friendly voice broke
into Ramsay's spiel. Matt, I'm calling from a public booth.
You recognized my voice before but I've got my thumb pressed against
my larynx just in case voiceprinted are as good as I hear they are.

You
also said to warn you, just in case. I'm afraid your old friend
was onto something incredibly big, and powerful, and it has cost
the lives of two people close to me. Maybe three. Maybe me, if they
want to. I may be under a magnifying,
glass, phone taps at home, the best that high-tech can offer.
I don't know for sure and I don't want to risk leading anyone to
you.

And
my daughter is missing; probably kidnapped. If there is any way
on God's earth you can contact your friend for me, do. Momentarily,
he was near weeping. My eleven-year-old girl, Alden; they've
killed her mother and I don't dare open up to the police, that's
how big this is!

He
took a shaky breath, then several quick ones, and added, Don't
trust anyone on any government payroll, and don't take my word that
you're safe. I could've slipped up, somehow. And please, please,
if you can, tell your friend. I'll give you good odds he's
under someone's death sentence, so maybe I could trust him. That's
all. Watch your step and your family's. Ramsay was leaving
the booth when he remembered he could call from any booth and query
his own apartment's message recorder.

He
found another booth, called his apartment, punched in the playback
signal. Pam Garza had called, suggesting that she cook antojitos
in his apartment to avoid restaurant food. Some Pentagon staffer
of Magnuson's had called to say the general would be out of the
area until Monday but would be available at two-thirty that day,
if Mr. Ramsay cared to confirm.

And
then another call; a harsh unisex voice that had said only, This
is once, Ramsay. Go home.

Finally
the same voice calling again, and this time he— more likely, she—was
more instructive: That's twice, mister. We know you can get
these calls if you want to. We won't run all over hell calling you
from here and there. We'll just start sending you bits and pieces.
Go home, Ramsay.

Ramsay
made it outside the booth before he vomited, broke a dozen laws
getting home, parked in front of his garage to save time, and stormed
into his apartment as the telephone began to ring.

It
was Pam. You know what antojitos are, mister?
She was utterly unaware of his panic. Little delicate morsels
you nibble with your teeth. As it happens, I have some, she
said, sensuously teasing.

Come
on over, he said. I have to keep this line clear for
an important call.

Pam
was only half amused. Important? What am I, chopped liver?

All
but shouting: Great, bring chopped liver!

You're
a very weird man, she said, vexed, and rang off.

The
injection had taken effect fast, but Laurie awoke very slowly. Her
joints hurt, and it was dark. Mom? A flat echo mocked
her. She rolled off the bed—no, only a bedroll on a wooden floor—and
padded barefoot toward the slits of light outlining a door. It opened
with a suddenness that made her squint.

Hello,
Laurel, said the woman, in a voice that was barely a woman's.
She was not tall but thickset, with short bangs and a square, wide
jaw, and the hands that steered Laurie into the fluorescent-lit
room were terribly strong. I'm Johnnie, the woman said,
smiling, touching her breast as if sign language were required.

I
hurt a lot. Where's my mom? Then, as recent memories pushed
through the fuzziness: Those men were hurting my mother!

Your
mother's all right, Laurel, said Johnnie. She said you
must hide here with me for awhile. I'm a friend of hers, you see.

Laurie
did not see much that encouraged her. The larger room sported only
collapsible furniture and portable amenities: card table, two chairs,
a large cot. A small portable TV and other equipment lay on the
table; magazines mounded under the cot. Three small fruitwood logs
burned in a glass-fronted fireplace for heat, most of the light
coming from a battery-powered fluorescent lamp on the table.
No light would get past the heavy drapes, which had been sealed
against the walls with broad-headed roofing nails. Opposite the
small room where she had slept, Laurie could see through a doorway
where a camp stove and canned goods lay strewn across a kitchen
countertop.

Laurie
studied the woman with the mannish clothes and the stout arms of
a bus driver. She wanted to use the telephone. She didn't understand
why she was here, and she said so.

Johnnie
explained in simple words, the words one might use to a simpleton
or a six-year-old. Laurie thought Johnnie's smile might have been
baked on until Johnnie claimed that Kathleen Ramsay was in trouble
with the police, and Laurie hotly disputed that. Suddenly, in place
of the smile, there was only the glittering flat gaze of a pit viper.
Don't call me a liar, Laurel, she said in that voice
like something from a cartoon, yet not in the least laughable.

Fists
on her hips, Laurie proved she was an only child: It's Laurie,
not Laurel, and I don't know you. If Mom's in trouble, I wanta call
my dad. You better get me a telephone or—

If
the red flag was 'you better,' Johnnie was the bull. Wrenched off
balance by the woman's thick fingers in her hair, Laurie found herself
dragged to a chair. Johnnie pinioned her arms with ease and thrashed
her ample bottom. You—will—behave, Johnnie punctuated
some of those heavy slaps. The louder Laurie screamed, the heavier
the slaps became until Laurie collapsed, sobbing, bent over Johnnie's
lap.

Then
Johnnie quit paddling and began kneading, stroking the bruised buttocks,
speaking more softly. Nobody can hear us out here, Laurel.
If you behave, I can make you feel good. Real good. Stop that,
she lashed a single slap again at Laurie's renewed struggle.
You're Johnnie's girl now, and you do as I tell you.

A
half-hour later, Johnnie taped the girl's mouth, wrists and ankles
securely and locked her in the dark room. Soon after, Laurie heard
the sounds of a door closing; a lock snapping. But long before that,
while lying across the woman's lap, Laurie had begun to understand
and to loathe exactly what it meant to be Johnnie's girl...

Ramsay's
phone did not ring again until he had greeted Pam and apologized.
At first he would only tell her that Laurie had been taken by persons
unknown. He said nothing of Kathleen's death, but Pam's lovely dark
features remained frozen in horror for many long seconds as she
stared, shaking her head. No, oh no, they couldn't,
she moaned. Shaking, she buried her face against his chest.

Touched
at her reaction, he said, We just have to wait and hope.
They did not have to wait long.

He
answered on the first ring. You're smart enough to follow
orders, said the not-quite-male voice that was now familiar.
Let's see if you're smart enough to keep the girl alive.

Whatever
it takes, Ramsay admitted. I'll trade myself for her
if that's—

Shut
up and quit trying to keep me on the line. Go right now and check
the battery in that yellow sportscar of yours.

The
battery? But— But he was talking to a dead line. He put the
phone down with great care, fighting for self-control, and did not
quite hear Pam's question. In any case, she had stammered. He asked
her to repeat it.

I
asked you what he said.

A
two-beat pause while their gazes locked. Yes, it was natural to
assume the caller was male. And it was almost a 'he' voice. But
hadn't Pam almost asked 'what did she say'? Doubt, as heavy
and cold as a fragment of a dead star, came to rest in Ramsay's
chest as he turned away from
Pam Garza. He said to check my car battery. Do you suppose
they're watching to see if I'll follow orders?

Pam
grabbed her cardigan sweater, tossed his jacket to him, and crossed
to the door expectantly. He took the jacket and followed her downstairs,
watching the nape of her neck instead of the fine lilt of her racehorse
legs. He wondered why Pam Garza had come into his life at this precise
juncture; whether she had done it under orders; and then he wondered
how he could touch her in pleasure while holding this suspicion.

He
let her stand beside him in the driveway while he pulled the inner
hood release. She seemed ready to lift the hood herself until he
warned her to move far away. If this was a booby trap, at least
Pam was unaware of it, he thought. But instead, someone had placed
a plastic bag atop his battery. She probably knew it was safe,
he reflected, holding the clear bag up to study it in the glow
of a distant streetlamp, unable to identify its contents.

Hurrying
back to his apartment, he said, They put this here during
the past half-hour.

God,
but they're cocksure, Pam said.

He
swung the front door shut, ripped off his jacket, folded his arms.
What's your conclusion from that? He half expected her
to say, in awed tones, that his enemies were so all-powerful that
he must obey their every whim. In that case he probably would have
struck her.

But
Pam was emptying the plastic bag herself and did not seem to have
heard him. Oh, she said softly in dismay, handing him
the long curl of blonde hair that was Laurie's color but might,
after all, have been anyone's. The keyring, however, was more conclusive:
its charm was in the tiny spherical magnetic compass. Ramsay had
given it to Laurie when she'd gone away to camp the year before.
Pam held it up and looked her question silently.

He
nodded. Hers, he said, and took the note as Pam
extracted it. Until this moment, I never realized I
could kill in cold blood. Well, I could. Right now.

From
all appearances, Pam did not see the threat as directed at her.
So could I, Alan. She pointed a tapering manicured finger
at the folded note as if the paper were a black widow spider. Tell
me if I should see that. Her finger, he noted, was shaking;
the skin around her mouth and nostrils was unnaturally pale. She's
not acting, he realized with a flood of relief and affection.
Whatever she is, Pamela Garza is no kidnapper.

The
note had evidently been printed out on a common pocket memocomp.
He read it, paused, then handed it to Pam. Once, while scanning
it, she made a noise that was half moan, and the other half was
growl. The note read:

WITHOUT
YOUR IDLE RUMORS, WINTOON AND THE WOMAN WOULD BE ALIVE. THE GIRL
WILL STAY HEALTHY EXACTLY AS LONG AS YOU STAY SILENT. WE COULD SEND
OTHER SNIPPETS INSTEAD OF HAIR, AND WE WILL, IF YOU CONFIDE IN POLICE.
SOME NIGHTS THE GIRL WILL CALL YOU AT HOME. KEEP YOUR SILENCE AND
NORMAL ROUTINES FOR A MONTH AND WE WILL RETURN HER SAFELY.

MAN
PROPOSES, GOD DISPOSES.

THINK
OF US AS GOD.

Handing
Ramsay the note, Pam rubbed gooseflesh from her forearms. Devils
would be more like it. Alan, did they—is Laurie's mother—?

Yes.
With a handgun. While they were stuffing Laurie into a goddamn garbage
can during rush hour today, if you can believe that.

He
watched as she traced circles on his carpet with a shoetip, her
arms folded so she could grip her elbows. Simply to be doing something,
Ramsay went to his kitchen and
inventoried the stuff Pam had brought: among other things, soft
avocadoes, brown sugar, and lamb chops. She was standing beside
him before he finished, and he failed in his effort to smile. They
embraced quietly in sexless mutual need. Finally: If you need
to be alone, I can go, she whispered.

He
denied it; dared her to create New Mexico antojitos that
might make him momentarily forget; and watched her small taloned
fingers prepare a feast as they talked. The talons paused as he
admitted, For all I knew, you could have been one of them.

She'd
thought of that, she said. I can't blame you; you really haven't
known me that long. Just tell me how I can help, Alan, and grade
me on how well I do it. But I don't think I want to know those rumors,
if they're this deadly.

She
took chances, he replied, just being with him. No, I won't
saddle you with what I know. Why don't they just zap me and be done
with it?

She
set the microwave oven dial and shrugged as she faced him. I
don't know, but I think we might be safe as long as you don't tell
everything on national television. I suspect they're just a little
afraid of what might happen if they tried to kill someone in your
line of work, and got caught at it. I mean, you're a frequent houseguest
to fifty million people, Alan. My big boss likes to say the media
is an outlaw horse, you can't tame it, but if you tickle its cojones
it might give you a good ride. Well, that's what he says,
she ended, her cheeks the color of a ripe peach. Actually,
he claims it was a quote from Showers.

Evan
Showers? His glance was keen. Showers, the President's press
secretary, did his job well if unconventionally; just the sort of
man needed to run media interference for a President whose public
performances were reminiscent of an evangelist.

Pam
nodded. My boss's boss, if the truth be known—and that's just
between you and me, she added quickly.

I
thought you worked for Elite Research, he began, and then
smiled as she nodded. Ah; then Showers is one of Elite's clients.
The practice of government's hiring independent research groups
was not widely known, but increasingly common. Short-term
jobs, or ongoing?

Ongoing,
she said. Elite does a lot of what we call unobtrusive measures.
You know, computer analysis of talk show jokes, that sort of thing.
Subtle measures of how well the administration is doing.

Pretty
sharp of Showers, he said.

Walter
Kalvin, you mean, she replied, opening the oven door. I
gather from little things Tate says and does that Kalvin's the brains
behind the stuff we check on.

The
son of subtle details he'd pick up in postgraduate work, Ramsay
thought. Oh yes, Kalvin's had himself a hidden agenda for
a long, long time. A regular
little intelligence service, he said aloud, if Showers
wants it run that way.

She
sniffed at the steaming casserole, gave a judicial nod, and placed
it on the table. Elite's first contract was directly through
Kalvin; a real internal disaster, she admitted as they sat
down. You know how Harry Rand likes to walk around with a
hand-held mike instead of standing behind a lectern with armored
glass?

Ramsay
snorted with amusement as he helped himself to fragments of pimiento,
lamb, and cheese layered atop corn chips. It's the preacher
in him, he said. A lot of us think it's as bush-league
as Pop Warner ballgames, but it seems to work for him.

Kalvin
wanted a grass-roots opinion before the Presidential campaign,
she said. Tate thought the habit would be a turn-off for a
national audience. I'm afraid he cooked our data a little to bolster
that opinion, she said ruefully, but it got harder to
cook as time went on. The public just plain liked the President's
style and Tate finally had to admit that, or provide outright false
data. Don't you breathe
word of this to anyone, Alan. I'd be in serious trouble.

I
didn't hear it, he said around a mouthful of delicious cholesterol,
pantomiming a feeding frenzy. You cook food better than you
cook data, he added.

Oh,
I'm what they call a field analyst; what I really do, mostly, is
jolly people into giving us free information. A lot of legwork,
she shrugged.

You're
highly qualified there, he leered, chewing happily.

I
don't always like what I have to do. But it's for a good cause,
she said. And where else could I earn oodles of money, and
meet people like Alan Ramsay?

There's
that. But what's the good cause?

She
colored slightly; busied herself with her fork. Harr—President
Rand is a fine man. I grant you he's no genius, but he's a decent
person. I've been a supporter since before he ran for the senate.

Ramsay
lowered his fork. You're kidding. You were hardly more than
a kid.

And
he was on the evangelical circuit. I went out of curiosity and—oh,
I suppose you had to be there. To see him striding across in front
of an audience, full of love and hope and anger and joy for us,
it just—I guess it was something like a religious experience,
she said. For three thousand people.

Ramsay
began to eat again, nodding, chewing, thinking. That's a big
audience. He saw her nod and went on, Did he use a wireless
mike then?

I
don't remem—oh, she said, grinning. No, the mike had
a cord. He tripped over it once; pulled the jack out of the socket.
I remember because it's the only time I ever saw Walter Kalvin on
his knees, scrambling to fix it.

Probably
still experimenting, Ramsay said, aloud but to himself. Then,
snapping his attention to Pam and her
entree, he took another helping. Quite a coincidence,
your getting a job here and finding Rand's people are your clients,
he said.

She
looked at him steadily. It was no coincidence. And I'd rather
not peer down a gift horse's throat, Alan. They both fell
silent, savoring the meal, until Pam said, Aren't there some
things about your job that it would be unprofessional of you to
talk about?

Not
many. Some, he admitted. Sure; a few.

Same
here. I wouldn't have shared any of this with you, especially considering
the work you do, if I weren't sharing everything else with you.
There are just some things I mustn't talk about.

Professionally.

Yes,
professionally. What are you getting at?

At
the last morsel in this dish, he said, smiling at her abruptly,
scraping with his fork.

You're
changing the subject. Finish what you were going to say.

I'm
not sure, he said, but I know it would involve using
your position to help me.

She
reached out to touch his wrist gently, her gaze sad and steady.
I have a commitment to you and Laurie now. That's not your
decision, it's mine.

They
sat in silence while Ramsay considered the ways that Pam might help.
It was not conviction but desperation that made him ask, Pam,
if I asked you to deliver a note to Kalvin personally, could you
do it? After some thought, she nodded. My career would
be on the line if he didn't like it. Tate's my boss, and Showers
is in between them, she reminded.

Just
an idea, he sighed. I'm not sure what I want to say.
If Laurie comes to harm I'll blow you away during a press conference?
Or more likely, Give me my kid now and
I'll retire from the business. No, his best option
for Laurie was to prove tractable, to do as the bastards
said and keep quiet for a month. Why a month?

He
puzzled at that question fruitlessly, staring into space until Pam
insinuated her toes between his feet beneath the table. She stroked
his calf, smiling, and presently he felt arousal for her—a miracle
in these horrendous circumstances.

An
hour later, after they had titillated each other through the kitchen
cleanup and moved into his bedroom with busy hands, they lay spent
on his bed. Perhaps not entirely spent, as she used one languid
hand to stroke him to a passable erection. Ah yes, she
murmured, the potency of the press. Would you say I'm holding
the wand of power, love?

I'll
say anything you like if you promise not to stop.

Her
chuckle was salacious in the shadowed room. Then, as they lay together,
she whispered into his ear: You're right, Alan. Don't trust
anybody; not old friends, not even me entirely. But I'd like to
know that you've written down everything for posterity, just in
case.

Mumbling:
So you can read it?

No.
Because it might keep you alive.

I
already did, he said, kissing the long curve of her throat.
He felt her relax then.

They
were half-asleep when the call came. Ramsay bounded into his study,
grabbed the phone. Ramsay here; hello? Hello?

This
time he heard no adult voice, but a series of clatters and clicks
and then, unmistakable, Laurie's voice: Daddy, she wants me
to tell you what I saw on the news. Click, pause, click. There
was this story about a train jumping off, uh, derailing. Click,
pause, click. She tapes this so you'll know I'm okay but,
click, pause. Click. I love you, Daddy and Mommy.

He
tried to reply but the line went dead. Obviously, someone had taped
and deleted some of Laurie's message.

Just
as obviously, Laurie could watch NBN's local newscasts. That meant
she was within the local coverage area, and she did not sound as
if she was badly injured. Hell, she could be on the other
side of Baltimore, he raged.

Pam
stood in the doorway, fetchingly disheveled, worry lines robbing
her face of youth. He ran his phone recorder playback through its
speaker for her; watched while she gnawed her fist in concentration
and dismay. She doesn't know about her mother. They may even
have some mercy.

He
nodded, sitting at his desk now, laying his cheek against her flank
as she moved near. Maybe it won't be as hellish for Laurie
as I thought, he said.

Unspoken
between them was the knowledge that his own daily routines were
going to be utter and absolute hell.

EIGHT

The
theatre in the west wing's basement had originally
been quite small; scarcely larger than the Cabinet Room upstairs,
dwarfed by the nearby Situation Room with its communications equipment.
The enlarging of the theatre had been Kalvin's idea. The long narrow
stage and the new ranks of plush seats, he had told Harrison Rand,
would give the President the kind of room he needed when addressing
a sizeable group in a private setting.

Standing
in the Situation Room with Rand, Kalvin tucked a gray wand under
one arm as he reached up to straighten his President's tie. But
it won't matter how he looks if he doesn't follow my script, Kalvin
thought.

Kalvin
had spent years trying to account for every significant variable
which created that public paragon, that potential monster, the charismatic
leader. The Nazis had one thing bass-ackwards: you didn't begin
with the characteristics of the leader, you began with the typical
follower. The same voice qualities that hypnotized most
people could generate doubt, or even subconscious hostility,
in a few. The chief trick was to find what won over the maximum
number of followers—especially in one-person, one-vote democracies
where the decisions are made by a majority of meat, and not necessarily
a majority of informed opinions. In 1930's Germany, a certain stridency
in tone had done wonders. Americans, half a century later, responded
better to deep resonances, among other things.

Kalvin
had worked long and hard to identify those other things. He had
microminiaturized a suitcase full of tubes and wires into a package
that fitted into that gray wand under his arm, and finally made
the whole thing wireless after a few harrowing accidents. Studying
the latest advances in voice stress analysis, which often revealed
when a speaker doubted his own truthfulness, Kalvin had added defeat
circuits that simply eliminated those tonal tipoffs the stress analyzer
was designed to identify. And because Kalvin never entirely trusted
Harry Rand or anyone else to follow orders exactly—to stick to the
script, as it were—Kalvin slaved the Donnersprache circuits to a
wireless enable-disable unit in his own pocket. The instant Rand
varied from what Kalvin wanted to hear, Harry Rand became only a
regional orator, the mike only an amplifier, the formidable Donnersprache
circuits only sleeping sorcery.

And
when Kalvin chose to enable those circuits again, then President
Harrison Rand's mighty voice flowed through artificial channels
to emerge with rhythms and cadences and resonant tones of self-assurance
that most. listeners found irresistible. And all he knows is,
whenever he deviates from my script, his results are poor. That's
powerful reinforcement to a man who wants to be loved, thought
Kalvin. Still holding the wireless mike under his arm, Kalvin tucked
the Presidential tie in, nodded at his handiwork—all three-piece-suited,
two hundred and thirty pounds
of it—and said, You're letter-perfect on your speech?

You
know I'm a quick study, Walt. Quit worrying, you just make sure
that bunch of congressmen is ready for their minds to be changed.

I
checked the viewport; Showers got them seated a couple of minutes
ago, Kalvin replied, and withdrew the wand from his armpit,
handing it to the President. Don't forget your mike.

Rand
took it, a device longer than most cordless mikes with a faint patina
of use on its knurling from Presidential palms after all this time.
Look, I don't need this thing for forty or fifty people,
he said. I know folks kid me about my old-fashioned delivery.
Might not hurt to modernize my image a little.

It
would ruin you, Kalvin said, understating the truth. Anyhow,
you need amplifiers in a room that size.

So
why not use a smaller room?

Because
then you couldn't use your own special style. Peripatetic, remember?

Walkin'
around while you talk. Aristotle. Sure I remember, but if I didn't
do it, I wouldn't have to use this thing, he said, shaking
the microphone like a party noisemaker.

Please
don't do that, Kalvin said quickly, reaching out to the wand.
You could bang it against something. Wouldn't want to damage
your lucky mike.

Your
lucky mike,'' Rand corrected.
You're
the one who got all pale and sweaty that time in Atlanta when I—

My
lucky mike, then. Kalvin had invented that explanation years
before after his own nervous near-collapse when Rand, speaking live
at a Georgia fundraiser, mislaid the device that had taken Kalvin
years to develop from its ancient German prototype. They had found
it in the pocket of a janitor, an hour later. Humor me, Harry.
It's part of you by now and
we don't want to change a winning combination.

They
began to walk to the reinforced doors, a staffer opening a door
smartly, getting a nod from the President. As the two men walked
down the hall toward the theatre, Rand tucked the wand into an inside
coat pocket sewn especially for this use. How many representatives
you think will change their minds from this little chitchat, Walt?

Never
possible to say exactly; they're a cynical lot, but you could swing
half of this group, maybe twenty, if you do it like this in a controlled
situation.

More
than one-on-one by phone?

Kalvin
knew that the magic of Donnersprache depended on excellent fidelity,
and you could not depend on the fidelity of someone else's telephone
receiver. It often worked, but you could not depend on it working
well enough, often enough. Trust me, Harry; this is better.
Brings out the old charisma, he said, patting the President's
arm, opening the door for his usual informal, bigger-than-life entrance.

Walter
Kalvin watched the reaction of forty congressional representatives,
each summoned because he opposed the new Federal Media Council,
each beginning to slip beneath the spell of the moment, each impressed
with his own importance, having been summoned to such a friendly
confrontation by the President of the United States. A position
of highly visible power, Kalvin knew, carried its own magic.

No
one noticed when Walter Kalvin sat down, hands jammed in pockets,
in a last-row seat. That was the way Kalvin liked it. He toyed with
the memocomp in his righthand pocket, paying close attention to
Harry Rand some of the time but to forty congressmen most of the
time. Harry was right, Kalvin thought, he was as quick to learn
his lines as most professional actors. It would not be necessary
to press the special buttons that could remotely
enable or disable the mike's Donnersprache circuits, at least
not until after the sermon. Actually, the only times Kalvin needed
to disable those circuits was when Harry Rand took it on himself
to cajole or bluster his way into a position that put him in opposition
to Kalvin himself. When that happened, the circuits got disabled.

And
so did President Harrison Rand's credibility, without the invisible,
silent thunder of Donnersprache.

Kalvin
watched and listened as Harry Rand strode across the slender raised
stage, thinking that the man had never been in better form. Videotapes
of the audience response would tell him more later. And of course,
there would be another such meeting with an assortment of the opposing
members of the Senate. It was all going according to plan, Kalvin
decided. They might not have to eliminate anybody else, not even
that guy Ramsay.

At
least, not until after the Federal Media Council became reality.
Then they could ice the bastard, him and anybody else they chose,
because even if a killing went wrong, the screwup wouldn't be a
problem unless it became news. And nothing would be news if Walter
Kalvin, chairman of that council, said it must not be news.

NINE

The
abuses of Laurie Ramsay were many, though most were no worse than
a slap. It was the sexual abuse that would leave invisible scars.
The worst part of it, Laurie found, was the cloying, sickening pleasure
she felt for brief moments in Johnnie's hands. Forced to rely on
her own strengths far more than ever before—even at summer camp—the
girl made great use of subtlety.

Johnnie
kept treating her like a little kid? Very well, Laurie would take
tiny revenges by acting the part. In the phrase of Laurie's school
chums: sandbag the bitch. Cold water was the only amenity of the
kitchen and bathroom, and Laurie's chores included dishes. Spilling
detergent, knocking the propane stove into the sink, and clumsiness
to the point of idiocy became Laurie's tricks. She quickly learned
that she had no hope of moving the heavy drapes away from the clerestory
windows, even in the kitchen: the process was noisy and Johnnie's
hearing was good. The sounds from outside included birds and occasional
aircraft, but no car traffic. Though Laurie was never permitted
to climb up and glance out, Johnnie pulled the drapes aside for
natural light during the days, performed indifferently as cook,
and meted out swift punishment for 'accidents.'

Johnnie's
weapons were open-handed slaps and viselike pinches. Two things
seemed to provoke Johnnie to attack the girl sexually, and Laurie
soon learned the ugly pattern. One thing was any behavior that enraged
the woman enough to spank. The other was binding Laurie's wrists,
ankles, and mouth with adhesive tape prior to Johnnie's nightly
disappearances. When Johnnie returned, she seemed tempted by Laurie's
helplessness. And always, after the despised caresses, Johnnie would
reward herself with tequila. The woman had brought two quarts of
the stuff and gulped it straight from the bottle.

Laurie
came to think of sex as horrid punishment, but in analyzing her
captivity she also found real wisdom. It was clear that Johnnie
had a child's ethic: full attention to what was due to her,
little attention to what was due from her. If Laurie could
be forced to do every chore, and to make no demands while Johnnie
filled her days with TV and magazines, then Johnnie would not fill
Laurie's days with so much anguish.

And
one more thing entered Laurie's thoughts: weapons. If anything convertible
to a weapon was bad, then Johnnie's hands should be confiscated.
Laurie wished she could bring a bottle of tequila down on her captor's
skull—which proved that Laurie's hands were potentially 'bad' too.
And wasn't Laurie's deliberate clumsiness really a weapon? It was,
in fact, Laurie's only weapon. Laurie began to wish she had a better
one, something with which to defend herself against power both illegal
and immoral.

Laurie
had begun to question the tenets of pacifism. And to consider alternatives,
and then to busy herself with empty
food containers which, in camp, she'd learned to make into a tea
set.

Johnnie
saw her small captive making 'cake' from fireplace ash, and brewing
'tea' in metal cans, and Johnnie returned to her magazines with
a shrug. Let the little bastard play childish games, she seemed
to think, so long as she was obedient and neat about it. Johnnie
did not seem to care that, for the silent, intent Laurie, it was
more than a game.

TEN

For
Ramsay,
the first few days of Laurie's
captivity became
a challenge to sanity. He canceled the appointment with Magnuson,
fully aware that he was choosing Laurie over the future of his country.
He found anodyne in his work, driving himself in solemn intensity,
telling himself that 'they' would return Laurie in a month—and not
believing it.

Incredibly,
not even the scrofulous tabloid press penetrated the cone of silence
around the death of Kathleen Ramsay, which was duly announced by
Lieutenant Corwin as suffered in her Georgetown home during
a break-in attempt. Aside from a few of Kathleen's friends
who had never liked Ramsay and did not intend to start now, Ramsay
noted that Corwin and two of his men were virtually the only others
to attend Kathleen's funeral. What's really galling,
Ramsay said to Corwin later, as they walked between rows of headstones,
is that she was bright, useful,
a good mother. And she's been put away without a ripple of suspicion
anywhere.

Put
it in plain terms, Ramsay: you mean she's gone, and her murderers
are running loose, Corwin corrected. That's what happens
when the people who could help us, won't.

Sure;
I talk to you, and they kill Laurie by inches. Strain made
his voice tight, almost shrill. She calls me every night,
Corwin, did you know that?

Corwin
knew. Did Ramsay know that the calls came from different directions?
Arlington, Silver Spring, Cheverly. Audio analysis suggested that
Laurie's messages were first sent from some single location as scrambled
transmissions over ordinary phone lines, to telephone booths spaced
around the Washington area. Then someone would call Ramsay and play
the tape. The calls were never long enough for police to fix the
exact location.

All
the earmarks of very, very organized crime, Corwin said. Maybe
politically organized. If you said the right things, Mr. Ramsay,
I could bring in the Feds. But I won't force you.

If
Corwin was part of it, he was role-playing and the hell with him.
If he wasn't, maybe he could be pushed back to arm's length. Ramsay
asked, What if it's some lunatic group of the Feds themselves?

After
a moment: If—mind you, that's an 'if I have seen only rarely
in seventeen years—but if it were, I could accidentally drop you
and your daughter into deep shit. But I don't like this, either.
He jerked a thumb back toward Kathleen's grave.

I
have to protect Laurie. She's all I have, now, said Ramsay.
Corwin's sigh and shrug implied understanding, and Ramsay's suspicions
of the man dropped a notch. The rest of that day, Alan Ramsay debated
himself over courses of action, and ended by choosing inaction.

Each
night, Ramsay waited with Pam Garza for what
had become both low and high points of his day: Laurie's
call. On Thursday, perhaps intending to frighten him, his enemies
made a serious mistake: they did not make that call. He slept little
that night, and on Friday morning he gave every appearance of settling
down, resuming business as usual, accepting the facts. But while
lugging his video equipment across town, he made the call he should
have made earlier.

He'd
intended to send another may-day to Matthew Alden. But Alden's answering
service clicked to an intercept an instant after Ramsay began to
talk.

The
voice was not Alden's. Take down this number and call from
public booths until you get an answer. The number had a local
prefix with a three-zero-one area code. Bethesda? He punched the
number into his memocomp and decided to keep his interview appointment
before making the next call. Five minutes after a deadly dull interview
for NBN, he found another phone booth as though at random, blood
pounding in his ears.

Two
rings. Then a man's voice, a drawl more West than South. Mr.
R., modern gadgets are so good they can be tipped off by a name
or a key word, and they focus on that call.

I
know that, but—

The
voice went on, interrupting him. Recorded. Think very carefully
before you speak and avoid key words or names, especially your own.
If I like your replies to the following questions, stay on the line.
Pause. Who introduced you last night on the defense appropriations
piece; and what kind of tires did you buy for your little Chevy?

Instantly
he said, Ynga Lindermann gave my lead-in, and it's not a Chevy
as you probably know, it's a Genie with wide Pirellis.

A
click, and now the voice was live, the same measured gravelly baritone
on the recording. Good enough, Mr. R., I was wondering if
you had the smarts to call Mr. A. again. I see you did.

I
hope I haven't put him in the same bind I'm in, Ramsay replied.

Not
as long as you keep calling from different anonymous places. Your
home phone is bugged two ways, conventionally by Metro Police and
by less friendly people using small transmitters. Your office lines
aren't secure either. You must continue to use a different booth
each time you call me. And for the moment, you must talk as if you
were wearing a bug on your clothes or even in your hair—because
you very well may be. Their equipment isn't good enough to hear
through your earpiece, though. Do you understand?

Very
handy for you, he said with anger he hoped sounded genuine.
If he were bugged personally, they would only be hearing his end
of the conversation. NBN has deadlines, you know. So how am
I supposed to check your side of the issue?

A
snort that could have been amusement. Very quick, Mr. R. As
for my side of the issue, consider me a very biased observer. Biased
in your favor—and you'll just have to take a chance on us. Think
about this: I alerted you to the problem with a letter. I've got
a new name—again, the man sighed affably in his first show
of human frailty. The other side would never offer you any
help, even false hope, because they want you hopeless and docile.
And we don't.

That
makes sense. But what can you offer?

First
thing, we get you deloused, the man said briskly.

Why
d'you say I'm, ah, lousy? But he felt like scratching himself
all over. Even the idea of an electronic bug made him feel defiled,
somehow.

Just
a hunch; quit talking and listen. Before your next call, buy a Mantis,
it's a sophisticated bug-catcher from CCI. Branches in Manhattan
and Washington. Use cash, not credit card; and even if someone you
know has one, don't borrow one, you could be borrowing trouble.
Don't tell anyone, not even your best girl, that you have it. Okay?

Yeah,
I've heard of the firm.

The
people you're up against can afford to bug every pair of skivvies
you own. Bugs may look like fuzzy weed seeds. They stick to things.
You can wash them out of body hair so they get to listen to the
plumbing. Launder them from clothes the same way without raising
suspicion. If you find one elsewhere, let it alone. They pick up
sounds about as well as your ears do. Still follow me?

I
think so, but how do I use the hardware?

Wear
it like a wristwatch; it is one, for that matter. But it pokes you
when it gets near an active device, so you can even spot a video
bug and it won't know you've tumbled unless you do something stupid
like taking the Mantis off your wrist and waving it like a flashlight.
And I'm afraid we've talked long enough.

Ramsay
was giddy from all the cloak-and-dagger orientation, and this man
had given him no real promise of help. No, wait, dammit. I
don't want to, uh, interview those people. I might be seen. Why
can't you provide the evidence yourself?

When
your mail is monitored? Nope; bad idea. But you have a point.
After the briefest of pauses, as if to himself: Sure, why
not? If this one goes down the wrong way, we won't be using drops
anymore. Call again. Give me ten minutes. And the line was
suddenly dead.

Ramsay
walked out of that booth feeling an almost feverish anticipation,
reminding himself not to smile or whistle because it might register
on some long lens or tape recorder. Ten minutes later, he had found
another booth. It's me again. You remember what I wanted?

Yep.
You'll find joy in the Rexall on Connecticut Ave,
a few blocks from where you work. Early this evening, you'll
decide your watch is on the blink. Within ten minutes after seven
p.m., go into the Rexall. Ask the clerk, not the pharmacist
and not the cashier but the clerk, for a Timex. Pay him, put it
on, and leave. For God's sake don't ask him to demonstrate it, he
wouldn't anyhow. Anyway, I suspect this'll be one of your better
bargains, pal. But patriotism is the bargain we get.

The
truth is, I'm starting to lose that.

Bullshit.
You called this number.

For
selfish reasons, Ramsay said, self-disgust flavoring his words.

I
think I know that reason. People in law enforcement sometimes talk
with old friends, the man said. Well, you can play someone
else's game, or you can keep me advised. If you don't call within
twenty-four hours we'll take it as a turndown, and no hard feelings.

Ramsay
thanked him and replaced the receiver, striding out to Independence
Avenue feeling as though he should sprint. The man had made no promises
but by God, he seemed to be part of something carefully organized.
Maybe that, he decided, was what put the vinegar back in him: the
man was a total stranger, but he represented hope. Ramsay saw no
gleam of it in any other direction.

He
made his deadlines at the studio, complained that his Seiko had
developed cardiac arrest, and called his own apartment knowing that
Pam would play the message back—and that others would hear it. Running
late, he said, thanks to a screwed-up wristwatch, and he'd be home
by eight or so.

At
exactly five after seven by his flawless Seiko, he walked into the
Rexall. The clerk was a wiry dark-haired man in his thirties, an
inch or so less than six feet, who fitted his surroundings like
Tums and aspirin. He was glad to help and my, but that face seemed
familiar. Ramsay admitted his
name, kept his casual role, and asked to see something reliable
in a watch; maybe a Timex?

With
nary a wink or nudge, the clerk produced two Longines and an electronic
Timex. Ramsay studied each. The clerk remained maddeningly offhanded
and made no suggestions. Ramsay turned the Timex over. The
price of this one?

You're
in luck. This one's a closeout at thirty-nine ninety-five. Something
to do with all those special functions, the clerk replied.

Ramsay
realized again that he might actually be carrying a tiny transmitter
on himself. I'll take the Timex, he said, and paid cash.

The
clerk made change, smiled, and said to the retreating Ramsay, I
expect it's one of your better bargains. Ramsay, with the
discomfort of a man who has inexplicably wandered into a staged
play, hurried out.

The
damned thing seemed to be an ordinary Timex, if you ignored the
tiny bar that lay flat on its underside. He slipped it on, thrust
the Seiko into his glove compartment, and drove home while aiming
the new watch at various parts of his body. Either he was free of
bugs, or the watch was faulty. Too bad he couldn't show it to Pam.
Odd, he thought, that it could make him feel so much better when,
so far, all it had told him was the correct time.

Because
Pam was waiting for him at his apartment, he made no overt effort
to check the place for monitors, but soon realized the Mantis worked
because it gently poked him several times while he was in the kitchen.
He felt a surge of anger about that, but knew a fierce elation as
well.

When
Pam left his apartment the next morning, he began to use the Mantis
with great care. The thing was highly directional in its ability
to pick up signals from an active transmitter.

He
found the first bug, after a puzzling fifteen minutes,
in a crack of cabinetry between his dishwasher and countertop.
It lay very near his kitchen phone. He found the second one faster
by marching directly to the study and waving his wrist near the
desk phone. The tiny device looked more like a furry tick than a
seed, and had been planted in the center of one of Laurie's 'forever'
poppies. It had lain in full view, had heard every word spoken in
his study, for—how long? Had the bastards bugged him even before
Laurie's kidnap?

Now
his elation was gone. A gradually building ferocity, held in careful
check, was all that remained. It did not diminish much during his
workday, and he sought a pay phone soon after lunch. The recorded
message suggested he call after three p.m. and at one minute after,
by his bargain Timex, he called again.

The
westerner came on-line immediately. Did you find anything
of interest, Mr. R.?

Damn'
right. Nothing on me personally, but I found two little gadgets
near my home phones. God damn these people, I've never
even seen them!

Oh,
you've seen one of them, all right. We're monitoring your little
hotsy, Mr. R. I don't know how long you've known Miz G., but she's
working for the other side. That's why I suggested checking your
body. She probably carries more bugs than Typhoid Mary.

The
briefest silence before a gritted, I'll kill her....

They'd
love that, said the man. She thinks she's a patriotic
American keeping tabs on a man who needs watching, and I doubt you
could prove otherwise to her. If it's any consolation, we gather
she's sick over your, um, babysitting arrangements. Her chief sin
seems to be naiveté. Keep playing her game, but don't let her lead
you into any dark alleys; it's possible they could change their
game plan about you.

Look,
I don't give a shit about my hide anymore. If
my kid were safe, I'd blow this whole thing in the media
and take the consequences.

Not
yet! The reply was instant; explosive. Eventually that's
just what we'd like to see but these people have a timetable and
we still aren't sure why. And if you hurt them too soon, they'd
hurt you back a lot worse. And you'd blow our show.

Ramsay,
with sudden suspicion: And what is your show, pal?

It's
still called the United States of America, I believe. If we're patient,
it may stay that way.

Ramsay
grunted assent and changed his tack. I had a call today from
a lieutenant in the Metro Police. He admits they're monitoring my
phone. Whose side are those guys on?

Yours,
apparently, but they can't help much. And if they get lucky, it
could be bad news for your daughter.

What
are the chances I'll see her alive again? He hated to ask.
He had to ask.

About
fifty-fifty, said the westerner. Getting better as they
keep her longer and get more confident. Your lady friend's contacts
must be through her job because she's not getting them at her apartment.
With luck, we just might be able to backtrack those calls. If we
can, someone may lead us to your little girl.

Is
that really one of your priorities?

A
moment's pause, and now something in the man's tone became less
commanding, more intimate; sadder, perhaps. There's an old
Greek physician's code that says, 'first, do no harm,' he
said. That little girl's troubles began with a decision of
ours. We're ethically bound to help free her, you have to believe
that. No, you don't have to, do you? Those last few words
had been spoken as if Ramsay himself had already answered.

I
think you're starting to see how I feel, Ramsay said.

I
don't blame you, but I can't do much about—

Hell
you can't. I do a lot of legwork on my own, pal, and I meet lots
of people; informants, interviews, that sort of thing. Why not meet
me face to face?

Now
the man's tones were plainly apologetic. Because if somebody
gets you in a spot with needles under your fingernails, the less
you know, the better. But your point is taken. Meanwhile, remember:
if we do get your daughter back, the instant the bad guys know it,
they'll be trying to nail you before you can get to a TV studio.
I don't want you to have any false hopes about that.

The
only hopes I have are pinned on an eleven-year-old pacifist, pal.
I won't see her for a month, they said.

A
month? Exactly? Why a month?

I
don't know, Ramsay said. I hoped you might.

Maybe
we do need a sit-down, Mr. R. But this call has already gone on
too long. Get back to me; and stay friendly with your hotsy, but
keep checking yourself for bugs, okay?

Right,
Ramsay answered, and hung up, now more perplexed than before. His
allies seemed as curious about that one-month time span as he was.

ELEVEN

At
dusk, ten days after the kidnapping, Robert Lathrop parked his rumbling
old Firebird two blocks from the suburban home of his real boss,
set its alarm, locked the door, and tugged at the vest of his gray
three piece suit before walking smartly away with his attache case.
In his vest pocket were cards that introduced him, truthfully, as
a salesman of household computers. Beneath the vest and the silk
shirt was a gut as hard and flat as Nautilus machines could make
it, with the help of steroids. If challenged, Lathrop could have
produced brochures from the attache case, and pocket memocomps at
very attractive prices. Lathrop made most of his money that way,
letting his fine physique, those moist brown eyes and the well-scrubbed
fresh features do much of the selling for him.

But
Bobby Lathrop did not think of that as his 'real' job. His real
job put a small submachine gun in his hands, and put him back into
the kind of power that a police internal affairs investigation had
taken him out of, years before.
No police commissioner can afford a disarming, glib young sociopath
in the ranks, if he knows about it; especially a bright one. The
kind of man who can afford a Lathrop is the kind whose
budget can be fudged, and who has ways of learning when a Bobby
Lathrop has been found and bounced. Such a man had found Lathrop.
Bobby's smile, as he skipped up the front steps of Terence Unruh's
home, was unforced.

The
door opened for him and Bobby strode in, with a dazzling smile for
Unruh who seemed, in the dim light of an unlit living room, much
older than he had been a week before. Take a seat, Bobby.
Beer? Iced tea?

Nothing,
thanks. Mind if I smoke?

It
hardly matters now, Unruh said, and sank carefully into an
overstuffed chair near Bobby. Quit looking around; my wife
and the kids are at a school play. We're secure.

Bobby,
with the highest respect for Unruh's security sense, visibly relaxed,
pulling a set of pages from his case before he lit the Winston.
Transcripts from Ramsay's phone.

Unruh
took them. Any other copies?

No,
sir, Bobby assured him, grinning again. Jondahl's
tape transcriptions are there too. Johnnie's as steady as a bitch
wolf.''

Bitch
wolves aren't queer for pups, said Unruh.

Bobby's
jaw twitched. It had been a mistake to tell Terence Unruh so much
about the habits of Johnnie, beyond her dependability, and doubly
a mistake to crack explicit jokes about the Ramsay kid's captivity.
Well, Reba Jondahl can't be charmed by kids and she won't
balk at stringent measures, said Bobby. When we're this
short-handed, we're lucky to have somebody like Johnnie that we
can depend on.

After
a pause, tiredly: I suppose.

Bobby
thought the phrase, sighed like that as if by a
defeated man, out of character for Unruh. But Unruh looked
out of character, as if the thankless job of government—whichever
part of it he really represented—had finally caught up with him,
aging him a year for every week. No wonder he keeps the lights
off, Bobby thought. If you want things simplified,
Bobby said, and paused to make his cigarette glow, let me
get creative with Ramsay. Household accidents kill a lot of people,
Terence.

Ramsay
has almost certainly written down what he knows and put it in a
safe deposit box, Unruh said, his voice soft, lacking vitality.
We want him just the way he is.

Indefinitely?
Why?

A
month. And I don't know exactly why, Bobby. I just follow orders.

But
if I intercept anything that says Ramsay's going to spill something
big—is the sanction still good?

Of
course, said Unruh. Just don't hurt that bimbo, Garza,
in the process. Someone very high up wants her healthy.

Small
wonder, Bobby Lathrop snickered, and flexed his arms. I
could use her healthy myself.

Another
sigh from Unruh. I'm sure you could. Which reminds me: if
Ramsay goes down for whatever reason, at that moment there's no
longer any reason for Reba Jondahl to keep the girl. Get the girl
away from that crazy butch immediately after that. Is that clear?

Yessir,
Bobby said quickly, brightly. He saw no point in adding that Johnnie,
whom he had busted when he was in uniform and had gotten to know
better since, was far more valuable than any snot-nosed kid. Johnnie's
features and voice were much too distinctive for even the dullest
child to forget or confuse with anyone else. Therefore, the Ramsay
kid would be 'taken away' by Johnnie's own hands, just as Bobby
Lathrop had already promised the woman. He would simply report the
girl missing.

Bobby
spent only five more minutes in the Unruh home, accepting a well-used
bundle of cash and swapping his phone scrambler attachment for another.
It was important, Unruh insisted, that the Garza woman keep Bobby
advised on her movements. There was no telling when she might need
new instructions from Bobby, and Unruh was hardly in a position
to contact her himself because, for one thing, she had never heard
of Unruh.

Bobby
left feeling that, for some reason, Terence Unruh did not want him
to linger. Almost, Bobby thought, as if he was unwelcome in the
Unruh home. That was okay with Bobby, so long as their job relationship
remained. Other people might fret over friendships. Not Bobby.

No,
sir.

That
night Laurie thought she was caught, for sure. She had let another
batch of her play-tea percolate into the tin can she used as a teapot,
and poured it into the cup she'd made from a smaller can. Johnnie
had turned off the lamp to save its batteries so that the only light
came from the fireplace and the little TV the woman was watching.
Then, as she'd done several times before, Laurie moved to the raised
hearth and slid the half-filled cup past the glass front and near
glowing coals.

But
Johnnie was watching. What the hell're you doing?

Laurie
jerked, then covered her guilty motion by sticking two fingers in
her mouth. Nuthin'. You made me burn myself, she mumbled.

Don't
tell me 'nothing,' Laurel. Johnnie stood up and left the TV
to stare at the tin cup. What's that?

Now
Laurie cowered in real fear—but she often did, with good reason.
I'm, uh, I was just boiling tea.

Johnnie
squatted at the hearth, squinting into the heat, and saw the clear
'tea' begin to boil around the cup's edge. Then, as Laurie stared,
the woman grasped the cup by the neatly
bent metal handle, with scorched adhesive tape Laurie had salvaged
to cover the sharp metal edges. Suspiciously, Johnnie swirled the
contents. Then, suddenly, she spilled some of it onto live coals
and moved back as if expecting a sudden flareup.

It's
just play tea, Laurie said as the coals hissed.

Uh-huh.
Thought it might be cooking oil, Johnnie said, the threat
implicit, watching steam hiss from the coals. Without another word,
Johnnie returned to the TV and Laurie repositioned the cup. Soon
it would be time for the nightly news, and then for Laurie's report
on it.

Presently,
after most of the water had boiled away, Laurie's trembling fingers
retrieved the cup. She moved back to her pathetic little tea set
and began to slurp noisily. Not the stuff she had been percolating
through wood ash and then boiled down, of course, but the other
cup with plain cold water. Laurie had learned more at camp than
mere basic woodcraft.

She'd
learned how settlers made soap, too.

TWELVE

The
Smithsonian's air and space museum seemed an odd place, Ramsay thought,
for his first meeting with an ally. But below those huge exhibits,
where historic aircraft hung like the predatory toys of giants,
sprawled a basement where a man could get lost, assuming he was
allowed down there. Ramsay had to show his ID twice before he could
descend into those depths, and consulted his memocomp after taking
a wrong turn.

He
found the door labeled FILM ARCHIVES at last, walked through with
his video equipment, and greeted a graying woman whose smile was
at first perfunctory, but widened as she recognized his face. She
checked his credentials anyway. It's very unusual, but you're
cleared into the archives, she told him. That makes
two at once. Very unusual, she muttered again to
herself as she ushered Ramsay into a tomb-like space with multiple
aisles stretching away between ceiling-high shelves. He saw the
man with the ancient can of sixteen millimeter film
immediately, but the man did not look up until the door had
closed.

As
the man turned, Ramsay's first impression was of a swarthy farm
hand in expensive slacks, perhaps part mestizo; straight longish
black hair, prominent cheeks, corded forearms sticking out from
half-rolled sleeves and, in a jarring note, gossamer white nylon
gloves. He stood and extended a hand, seeing Ramsay's gaze on the
gloves. Just protective coloration, Mr. Ramsay, he said
as they shook hands, and Ramsay recognized the voice. This
old nitrate film is delicate stuff. People dart in here every so
often, but it's as secure as a missile silo. Remarkable what you
can do with the right lodge handshake, isn't it? Call me Tom; Tom
Cusick; but if you're more comfortable with a name you know, make
it Cody Martin. Both street names. Cusick had a face that
could smile and squint at the same time, as though sharing a joke
with someone a mile away.

I'm
Alan, or Al if you want to bug me, Ramsay said, and took the
vacant chair. Speaking of bugs, I'm clean. He brandished
the wrist with the false Timex. And thanks. Forgive me for
coming right to the point, but anything new on my daughter?

No;
sorry. A one beat pause. We have a probable contact,
maybe a second, but I can't talk about that yet. If you get picked
up by the wrong folks, Alan, you can't talk about it. Even
though they could make you want to very, very badly.

Trying
to scare me?

Yes.
If you're already scared, good, and I'll lay off.

I
am. Scared enough that I'm thinking about buying a gun.

Cusick
cocked his head, and his gaze was skeptical. We can't help
you there. It's not something we do.

What,
exactly, do you do, Tom?

His
hands idly coiling the old black and white film as
he replied, Cusick said, Most people think of lodge
brothers as grown children who raise money for charities. True,
as far as it goes, Alan. Did you know that nearly every President,
until recently, has been a member of some Masonic order? Seeing
the curiosity in Ramsay's face, he went on: We try to break
no laws, but we'll operate in the chinks between laws.

Because
Ramsay had seen the grotesque ways in which honest folk had been
co-opted by a LaRouche or a Kalvin, his question was pointed. Party
affiliation?

None.
Personally, I'm a radical centrist; I'd love to see some profound
changes, some liberal, some conservative. It's really not an important
question. What's important is this Donnersprache thing that Undersecretary
Parker called a charisma device. It might somehow be used to help
human beings, but in the wrong hands—well, there might have been
a fuehrer in Germany without it, but maybe not. And Donnersprache
is obviously not in good hands the second time around. Think of
us as a few armchair sociologists, Alan, working up a list of the
unpleasant things that might happen within, say, a month.

I've
pared my list down to one, said Ramsay. I don't envision
it as a factor on the foreign policy side. And you can put it down
to my media bias, but the thing I see fast approaching is a Congressional
vote on that damned Federal Media Council.

Cusick
had a good poker face, and he was using it. What if it passes?

Ramsay
shrugged. Maybe nothing much. Might depend on who chairs it,
and how they interpret their clout. Eventually it could be a Supreme
Court issue, but the court moves slowly. A hell of a lot of censorship
could come down the pike before that.

Cusick
nodded. I don't suppose you have any ideas about exactly how
Donnersprache works, or what it is, he said,
stirring the air with one daintily gloved hand.

Yeah,
I do. Pretty obvious, once you research Walter Kalvin's background—and
Rand's, Ramsay said. You've researched Kalvin. His degrees;
the way Rand's career went into high gear after he and Kalvin got
together; all that stuff?

Another
nod. An interesting view, said Cusick, noncommittal;
maybe too much so.

I
don't know how many people are in on the Donnersprache idea, but
I think it could be Kalvin's alone. I'm sure Rand knows, of course.

You
are? I for one am amazed at the things our President doesn't know,
said Tom Cusick. And at the things Kalvin does know.

Like
how to build that goddamned Donnersprache gizmo into a hand-held
mike, Ramsay said. I'd love to get my hands on one.
I'm sure he has a fucking drawer full of 'em.

For
the record, Alan, I think you're fantasizing.

Ramsay
grinned. But off the record?

Cusick's
button-dark eyes were hard as he shook his head. Under enough
duress, everything goes on record. I can't give you anything that
isn't for the record.

Ramsay's
hand slapped the table with blinding speed, but without great impact.
What the hell can you give me, then?

Tom
Cusick's reaction was quick; a defensive motion with both arms,
just as quickly relaxed. Easy, friend. Pretty quick hands,
by the way; I like it. Let's talk about something else, he
said abruptly. We aren't as well-heeled as we'd like, but
foresight and the right handshake can sometimes beat money. What
if worst came to worst, and you needed to—what we used to call exfiltrate?

Ramsay
frowned, then made a connection. Disappear, you mean? False
ID, that sort of thing?

A
nod. Don't think it can't happen. I've needed it to keep my
head screwed on more than once, Cusick
reminded him. Or maybe just a safe house for a few
days. Most of that, we can do. What we won't do, his smile
was wry and lopsided as he waggled a hand like a listing boat, others
can, and we can point you in the right direction.

Ramsay
needed a moment before making a troubled headshake. I'll keep
it in mind, but that's not my style. And it presupposes that something
has happened to Laurie.

Not
at all. It just supposes someone decides to take you out. You're
the one who's dangerous, not your little girl. And if you decide
you need to run for it, call me. If you get the answering machine,
whistle the highest, steadiest pitch you can for as long as you
can; it's an alert signal. You can whistle?

Yeah.
Look, why the hell don't you just contact some other media people?
A dozen of 'em; somebody not connected to me. Then Laurie would
no longer be—oh, my God, he said, seeing Cusick's lowered
head, and its slow negative shake. When she's no longer important,
you're saying I won't get her back.

I'm
wishing I could tell you otherwise, Cusick said. I realize
now that we should've broken this to a dozen people simultaneously.
But we didn't, we chose you.

Some
favor, said Ramsay, his jaw twitching.

Some
favor, Cusick echoed.

THIRTEEN

TRANSCRIPT
OF CONVERSATION FROM

PERSONAL
FILES OF TERENCE L. UNRUH

(BY
SUBPOENA; UNDATED):

U:
Go to Beta scrambler, please.

K:
Wait a minute. Okay, on my mark: mark. (BRIEF LINE INTERFERENCE)

U:
Kalvin, something's wrong with Ramsay.

K:
(LAUGHS) There's supposed to be.

U:
No, I mean he's not behaving right. He's been trying to talk back
to those messages from his daughter, and I've recorded it for analysis.
The stress analyzer showed he was climbing the walls. Now he's not.

K:
Don't expect him to stay at panic stress levels forever, Unruh.
Take my word for it, he should level off at medium to high arousal.

U:
Well, he did. But he dropped off that plateau a couple of days ago.

K:
Not too surprising if, uh, he's probably taking downers. That would
figure, and you could verify it with Garza, I imagine.

U:
I had Bobby Lathrop ask her about that. She says not, but Bobby
is worried about her dependability. I'm not new on a stress analyzer,
Kalvin, and I tell you the man is psyched up, wired. I don't know—

K:
If that's all that's bothering you, see to it that his kid is crying
in tonight's call. Must I think of everything?

U:
You'd better, and one thing you'd best think about is just how long
you can keep a man like Ramsay on the edge of a nervous breakdown.
If he blows his top, Christ knows what he might say, and I don't
have enough men to assault a mental ward.

K:
Two weeks, Unruh, two lousy frigging weeks. I trusted you to recruit
all the assets you needed.

U:
Look, I'm, uh, just sending you a flare. There's something going
on in Ramsay's head and if it's a short fuse to a blowup, you could
be lookin' at that fast flight to Quebec.

K:
We covered that a long time ago, Terry. You said my exfiltration
was all in place.

U:
It is. But it's not exactly your favorite scenario, is it?

K:
I was just asking; it won't be needed. Not ever, if everything goes
as it's tracking now. You just take care of your assets and I'll
take care of mine. Uh, how are you doing? Personally, I mean.

U:
Am I still dying, you mean. (LAUGHS) I'll last more
than two weeks, asshole. I intend to stick around long enough
to see what comes from all this.

K:
In the meantime, if you're right, you'll need to run tighter surveillance
on Ramsay.

U:
I'm spending several hours a day getting treatments, Kalvin. I can't
be expected—

K:
Just handle it.

U:
You're all heart. (LINE INTERFERENCE. MESSAGE ENDS.)

FOURTEEN

Laurie
knew the agenda all too well. Johnnie never skipped more than one
night in making Laurie describe the news, and she had skipped the
previous night. So, later tonight, Laurie would be tightly bound
again for Johnnie's foray outside and when she returned the hated
demonvoice would form obscenities while the hands and mouth performed
worse obscenities and at last Johnnie would drink her tequila. Laurie
felt her lip curl. She knew her teeth were showing; she did not
recognize it as a smile. Johnnie switched TV programs on a precise
time schedule according to the small comm set by the TV, its digital
readout relentlessly counting off the last hours of life. The compact
Sony unit was clearly more than a recorder with earphones and clock
because once or twice a day, at no predictable intervals, it would
emit a series of thin chirps. Immediately, Johnnie would punch a
code into the calculator. Laurie had earned a slap for watching
the woman operate that pocket comm set. Laurie had realized that
the chirps were incoming queries.
Johnnie's coded response told someone, somewhere, that all was well.

Johnnie
would not ignore that signal merely because it woke her in the night,
as sometimes happened. The outstanding virtue of Reba Jondahl was
her passion for obedience—whether she was master or servitor. Laurie
Ramsay had come to understand this central pillar of Johnnie's existence.
Because they were short-handed, Bobby Lathrop could not afford sloppy
work and rejoiced to have someone like the Jondahl woman who, ex-con
or not, kept highly dependable routines.

Now
Laurie, too, joined in that rejoicing. Exactly on time as always,
Johnnie went to the bathroom carrying her heavy purse and the comm
set. Laurie sat against a bare wall where she could watch the TV.
And as usual for the past few days, the girl seemed to be dozing,
her blonde head on her knees. Laurie knew how to create a routine,
too.

Laurie
kept her breathing steady until the bathroom door closed, knowing
that she must complete her stealthy work within two minutes or so.
She moved quickly, terrified at small sounds; the pop of her joints,
the clink of utensils. She had replaced everything and was near
Johnnie's cot, with its supply of magazines and bottles beneath,
when Johnnie emerged too soon from the bathroom.

Neither
of them moved for a moment. Then, Going somewhere? from
Johnnie in a snarled parody of sweetness.

Laurie,
trembling too hard to speak, could only shake her head.

Johnnie
deposited her purse and comm set on the card table, then reached
toward the cowering girl. Thought I wasn't watching,
she rasped, prying at Laurie's balled fists and finding them empty
of contraband. Thought you could play fuck-around with Johnnie,
she went on, ripping at the pockets of Laurie's filthy jumper.

Laurie's
denials made no difference. She took two heavy slaps across her
face, tried to protect her head with her hands, then fell to the
floor and submitted, sobbing, to Johnnie's body search. That was
what made the difference, for the woman found a child's handful
of corn chip fragments and a small ball of used adhesive tape in
Laurie's pockets.

Johnnie,
breathing hard, tossed the ball of tape into the fireplace and surveyed
the sad little hoard of food fragments she had scattered to the
floor. Clean up that shit, she commanded, assuring that
Laurie saw the mess by grasping the girl's hair and shaking her
head above it. Then Johnnie seated herself at the table and found
a TV sitcom, watching occasionally as Laurie, on hands and knees,
carefully removed specks of food and cast them into the fireplace.

At
last the job was complete. Don't do that again, Johnnie
warned. Laurie sensed that the woman did not know what 'that' had
been. And through her sniffles, behind her cowering as she slumped
down against the baseboard, Laurie knew it would not be necessary
to do it again.

Laurie
saw her dad on the nightly news, and thought that he looked older.
At Johnnie's command, she duly recited to the comm set about the
pileup on the Anacostia Bridge. When she added, And Johnnie
beat me up for nothing, she collected another slap. She did
not know whether that accusation would reach her father. She did
know it would make Johnnie mad as hell.

To
make matters worse, when Johnnie brought the adhesive tape from
her purse the procedure became a struggle. Johnnie always hurried
to lock up for her brief absences. The woman was brutally efficient,
dragging Laurie to her pallet and locking her in. Presently, Laurie
heard the outside door lock and, weeping from fresh
bruises, she fell asleep. She knew that she would soon be
awakened.

Johnnie's
return, and her sick attentions to Laurie, were routines the girl
suffered with a sort of ghastly anticipation. This time Johnnie
carried her to the cot, removing the tape from her ankles but leaving
her wrists and mouth taped.

After
ten minutes Johnnie sat on the edge of the cot, her drives assuaged.
Starting to like it, she accused, in that notwoman voice
Laurie had come to equate with Satan's. In prison, you develop
a taste for a lot of things. But not the stinkin' chock, she
said with her coarse-grind laugh, bringing the tequila bottle from
under the cot. You make chock from cornmeal, sugar, raisins,
yeast, anything you can get on the inside. Always tasted like shit
to me. Not like this, she added, unstoppering the bottle.

She
turned and smiled down, staring into the girl's eyes that, despite
the tears, stared back. This Sauza is good stuff, she
confided, swirling the remaining few ounces of nearly clear liquid,
and then took a triumphant swig.

Johnnie
swallowed over an ounce before the gag reflex closed her windpipe.
It had taken Laurie Ramsay over two weeks to collect and evaporate
the stuff, percolated through wood ash, that became four ounces
of a primary ingredient of old-time soap: concentrated caustic lye.
It had taken her less than two minutes to substitute it for tequila.
It took Johnnie only seconds to realize that the lining of her throat
was gone.

Johnnie
blinked as she flung the bottle aside, but not fast enough to prevent
a splash of lye into her eyes. She leaped to her feet, convulsed
with an agony that spread from her throat and face into her belly,
then wheeled back to the cot. Reba Jondahl had known from the first
that she would have her choice of ways to kill the girl, and had
already decided on slow strangulation. Now, even deeper than the
fiery pulse in her guts, one intent burned in her
brain: to reach the girl's throat. Johnnie, half-blinded
and unable to breathe, reached down with both hands.

Wrists
still bound behind her, Laurie saw it all, just as she had hoped,
and knew what those callused claws were seeking. Lying on her back
with knees flexed, Laurie used her left leg to push off and swept
her right leg up with every ounce of fury an eleven-year-old soccer
jock could muster. Laurie's kick was awkward but her sturdy legs
were driven by desperation. Her right heel caught Johnnie precisely
on the jawline, full force.

The
woman spun on her left foot; crashed against the card table; fell
face-down as the table knelt, spilling the lamp and TV set onto
her body. Reba Jondahl was aflame from inside and her ruined throat
would not permit the passage of enough air. Rolling onto her back,
mouth wide, she began to claw at her own face.

Laurie
rolled from the cot in mortal terror and leaped to her feet. She
had not expected Johnnie to recover and she knew that, if her hands
were not free soon, the woman would certainly kill her.

The
tape on her wrists would not yield. She knelt at the raised hearth,
her back toward it, and began to worry the tape against the abrasive
edges of bricks.

Even
though her mucous membranes were slowly being flayed alive, Johnnie
somehow began to manage a hoarse whistle of breath. Semiconscious,
she rolled over, staring through her agony. She was clinically blind
by this time but she could see the girl's vague shape facing her.
And her lungs seemed on the verge of getting enough air. On hands
and knees, carrying an inferno in her body, Johnnie lurched in Laurie's
direction, paced by the whistling rasp of her breath.

Laurie
kept sawing at the bricks until the last possible instant, then
scrambled up, and her sidewinder kick took Johnnie across the bridge
of the nose, snapping her head hard enough to make her hair fly
outward. Johnnie fell on her
side but, instead of continuing to kick, Laurie ran to the bathroom.
Perhaps, she thought wildly, she could slam the door for more precious
seconds of life. But her clothing caught on the latch striker plate
protruding from the door facing, and the rip gave Laurie new hope.
She worked to catch the frayed tape against the little tongue of
brass, moaning with terror because she could see Johnnie come up
on hands and knees again, blood runneling from her nose.

Then
Laurie felt the tape begin to yield, caught at it with desperate
fingers, tore harder against the brass plate heedless of the pain
at her wrists. When two layers of tape wore through, perspiration
helped her slide from the rest. Laurie, tearing away the strips
at her mouth, slammed herself into the bathroom.

Which
had no exit.

The
only light was from the crack under the door, and Laurie knew that
the devil herself would soon be at that door, obscuring all of her
light forever, and when Laurie wrenched the door open again Johnnie
stood almost erect, leaning in the hallway, wiping at her eyes and
making that dreadful hoarse gasping noise. It was not so much courage
as horrified panic that sent Laurie bolting past, her arms windmilling
furiously, her small body slamming past Johnnie to sprawl into the
big room in the half-light of the lamp on the floor.

There
in full view lay Johnnie's big purse, open, with a small holster
clipped inside it. Laurie fumbled the dead-black thing with the
thick handle out of the purse and turned to face her pursuer. She
had never heard of a Heckler Koch P7, but she knew it was
an automatic pistol. And even a child could see that sighting was
no more complicated than alignment of two white dots in the rear
with one white dot in front.

Johnnie
may have thought that Laurie was only threatening, holding the H K
at a range of two paces. That was because
Laurie's hands were small and initially, even with a two-handed
grip, she was not fully depressing the. squeeze-cocker safety. When
Laurie finally succeeded, Johnnie's opinion was revised by a thunderous
noise and a single nine-millimeter round just above Johnnie's navel.
The woman doubled over as though lashed by an invisible foot, then
sat down hard in a way that would have been comical in other circumstances
and slowly fell on her side.

Laurie
had never fired a weapon and, unprepared for the sound and recoil,
dropped the pistol. By the time she recovered it, Johnnie half-lay
on the floor, face contorted, fumbling with the little comm set
as she tried to operate it blindly.

Laurie
knew that the woman was in hideous agony, and that Johnnie was in
some ways not quite human. And she also knew what you were supposed
to do with animals in hopeless pain. Buoyed by this rationale she
found it easy, with the muzzle an inch behind Johnnie's skull, to
squeeze the trigger once more.

What
erupted from the other side of Johnnie's head was not stuff Laurie
wanted to remember, as Johnnie jerked and flopped like something
filled with dirt and did not move again. But as Laurie laid the
weapon down and emptied the purse onto the floor, the ringing in
her ears became a chirping too. Then Laurie realized that the chirps
were not inside her head. They were coming from the comm set.

Bobby
Lathrop enjoyed tooling the Firebird around, even if its brakes
were lousy, and he took the Gaithersburg turn-off from Highway 70
by gearing down so that Harman, his companion, grabbed for a handhold.
Jondahl's failure to respond was probably just an equipment failure,
the two men agreed. It would take a half-hour to actually reach
the isolated house by road, and only moments to rectify the trouble.
So much the better; neither of the men
enjoyed the company of that reptilian twat, though that wasn't
supposed to count among hardened pros. After parking near the darkened
country place, Bobby stayed at the wheel while Harman, wearing the
thinnest of leather gloves, took his stubby Ingram stuttergun into
the house on recon.

Harman
came back at a dead run. Somebody's plucked the kid,
he panted. They whacked Johndahl, man, I mean recently!
Still warm. All her fucking credit cards and shit spread around—but
I didn't see that little shooter she carries. And listen, I want
you to come verify something.

Bobby
flowed out of the Firebird fast. Harman's observation was easy to
verify, but not to figure. If some rescue team had got past Johnnie,
then why the fuck would they unscrew the hinges of the back door
from the inside, leaving the combo lock untampered?

Not
once did Bobby or Harman entertain the idea that an eleven-year-old
child, sufficiently brutalized, might have managed such carnage
unaided....

FIFTEEN

Ramsay
padded into his study and answered the phone as churlishly as anyone
would, at one o'clock in the morning. Uh, jus'aminute....
Okay, I'll tell her if I see her. He disconnected, yawned
from his study into the bedroom playing out the old-fashioned phone
cord to its full length, flicked on the light and gently shook Pam's
shoulder. Somebody named Carol Heaton; friend of yours. You're
supposed to call forward. That's all she said, tell you to call
forward.

Two
blinks, and suddenly Pam was wide awake, nodding. He handed the
instrument to her, then sat on the edge of the bed.

Without
hesitation, Pam Garza dialed a number. I'm here, she
said. Pause. Yes, he is. In the next room.... Of course I
am, you should know that by now. Ramsay could hear, very faintly,
the timbre of the voice, and it was male. Ten seconds later, he
saw the color drain from her face. She pulled the sheet up to cover
her, gooseflesh prominent on
her arms. I, I don't think so, I'm not— that's not the kind
of thing I—please, no! Now her free hand covered her brow,
fingers unconsciously flexing in her dark hair. She was trembling.

Then,
chewing her underlip as she listened, Pam seemed to regain some
composure. Twisting the mouthpiece away, her ear still against the
earpiece, she whispered to Ramsay: Get dressed just as fast
as you can. Now she resumed talking. I don't know what
I can do, but I'll try, and so on, furiously waving Ramsay
away from the bed.

Three
minutes later, as he was pulling his shoes on, she put the phone
down and fairly leaped from the bed to begin dressing. Her voice
was very small: Alan, Jesu Maria, darling, what have you done!

You
tell me. Where the hell are we going?

Different
directions. I have to ask where you're going, but you mustn't tell
me. She pulled a mascara brush from her purse; showed him
the hollow needle that slid from its stem. I was told this
was for me, if I ever needed to use it. But now Lathrop says it's
for you. I—even for my country, Alan, you know I couldn't, and I
told him so. He must be desperate to even say it indirectly; the
police probably heard every word. Then he said to keep you here
any way I can until they can talk to you.

He
barked a bitter laugh. I can imagine the questions: bang,
bang, and bang. Who the hell is Lathrop?

The
man I work for, when I'm not doing company business. You don't seem
very surprised.

I'm
not. I've known you were on the wrong side for some time.
A new thought twisted his face into something ugly. I don't
suppose I could beat you into telling me where Laurie is.

With
whispered intensity: Softly, Alan, there are audio transmitters
in the apartment. You must believe me, I had no idea—well, if I
knew where Laurie was, I'd tell you. It's just not right! Have you
done something so terrible?
Now she was tucking her blouse in, following him as he headed for
the living room closet for a windbreaker.

Yes.
I learned how, without being elected, a man can become the real
President of the United States using a psalm-singing figurehead
as his puppet.

I
don't understand. Now they were both whispering with quiet
fury. Harry Rand isn't—that can't be true.

He
reached for the doorknob. If it isn't, people are dying over
an empty rumor.

She
stood transfixed, staring at him, perhaps hoping to see duplicity
in his eyes. Then she said, Look out for Lathrop, he's a bad
one. I'm supposed to try and stop you.

In
his rage, without a real opponent he could reach with his bare hands,
he said the most vicious thing he could: You'll think of something,
you Mexican whore.

She
swallowed, taking two steps toward him, tears beginning to course
down her face. Make it look good. Hit me.

He
had already turned away in disgust when she said it another way.
If you ever loved me, Alan, hit me.

He
wheeled and struck her with his open hand, then started down the
stairs as she fell. He heard his telephone begin to ring and did
not give a damn.

Laurie
had considered flagging down the car—in daylight she would have
seen that it was an old Firebird—as it swung into view, half a mile
from the solitary house. But she was cutting across an open field
at the time, toward the vague glow of neon in the distance. The
purse was heavy with the weapon, and the coins and bills were more
money than she had ever had at one time. The contents of that purse
gave Laurie a heady sense of power.

A
small aircraft, its landing lights arrowing past her, swung into
its final approach. When Laurie saw the beacon flash across her
quadrant of sky, she turned in its
direction. That is why, as the Firebird roared back through
the silent neon-lit center of Emory Grove, Bobby Lathrop did not
catch her.

Laurie
made it afoot to the Montgomery County Airpark nearly two hours
later, hoping someone there might have a telephone. The man in the
old leather jacket was nice, though inquisitive as a truant officer
when he saw the swollen left side of her face; but since she only
asked to call her mother, he could hardly complain.

But
when she dialed home, a recording said that the number was not in
service or had been disconnected. Laurie knew that had to be crazy,
but she called her dad next.

The
line was busy. I bet he's talking to Mom, Laurie said,
and accepted half a Hershey bar from the man, who said he had a
girl just about Laurie's size and he would sure as heck like to
know how come she was tarryhooting around the countryside at one
a.m. He did not seem particularly satisfied by Laurie's shrugged,
I got lost.

Two
minutes later, Laurie tried again and became puzzled immediately.
Who? This is Laurie. You know: Laurie Ramsay? Pam? Hi, Pam.
Boy, have I had a day, I'm at the airport— She listened for
long moments, ignoring the interested frown of Mr. Leatherjacket.
Then: Well jeez, why not? ... I don't get it; who's listening?
. . . Okay, if you say so.

Momentarily,
Laurie wore a frown too. Then she said, Hey, you been crying?
Me, too. Huh? Naw, I won't have to hitch, I can take a taxi, I've
got money, hundreds and hundreds. And a gun, too. She glanced
at Mr. Leather-jacket and saw the gold caps gleaming in his rear
molars.

He
snapped his mouth shut and began to chuckle as she went on: Mostly
I'm just sleepy, but Johnnie beat me up a lot and, she flushed,
catching the man's gaze, other stuff. Pam, is it okay to kill
people like her? A shorter pause. Soon as I can. Will
Mom and Dad be there?

She
was not pleased with the response and laid the receiver down with,
Durn. She hung up on me.

Young
lady, said Mr. Leatherjacket, let me congratulate you
on the most creative imagination I ever saw or heard of. Can you
really afford a taxi home?

Laurie
assured him that she could. But I'm not going home. And he
better take me where I say, she hinted darkly, hugging the
purse.

The
man said she could depend on it. Herb, the only driver on duty thereabouts
this time of night, was a personal friend.

Ramsay
couldn't say why he turned the Genie back for a single run past
his apartment; but slowing to stare toward the lighted place, he
saw the dark Firebird double-parked, one man dashing up the stairs.
As Ramsay passed, the man at the Firebird's wheel turned and saw
him, then honked several quick blasts. The man on the stairs turned,
something squarish and metallic showing through the opening of his
coat, and then he was racing back as the Firebird's engine coughed
a warning rumble. The driver was hammering on his steering wheel
in frustration as he waited for his companion and Ramsay whacked
the gear lever, reaching with two fingers for the boost switch on
the lever's side. He wasn't sure the Genie's booster was working
until his Pirellis began to smoke.

SIXTEEN

He
took the first right-hander he saw, thinking
that the Genie's maneuverability might make up for a Firebird's
monstrous rush up through its gears, and for his own lack of experience
in life-or-death driving. With a ten-second head start, Ramsay hoped
to make enough tight turns that sooner or later, the Firebird's
driver would begin to lose more precious seconds wondering which
way he had turned.

But
Ramsay soon found himself overmatched. Instead of beginning each
turn at the intersection, as he did, the big muscle car was starting
its turns efficiently, very early and very wide, ticking the edges
of curbs, booming down suburban streets with a surge of sound that
Ramsay could hear above the wail of his own smaller engine. And
when he divided his attention between the streets ahead and the
onrushing Pontiac behind, he managed to misjudge his own path. The
big car loomed only five seconds behind when Ramsay, driving beyond
his capacity to react to what appeared
in his headlights, saw the extreme dip at one intersection too late
to avoid it.

He
braked in panic when he should have accelerated, the Genie's nose
diving, rebounding with a mighty thump of bottomed suspension, starting
a sidelong slide. He released the brake, judging that if he was
very, very lucky, the Genie might make it between a fence and a
brick wall into someone's driveway—which meant that, lucky or not,
he would be afoot within seconds.

Except
that it was not a driveway at all. He had turned in at an alley,
a piece of Americana left over from times when trash collectors
drove behind a house, not past its front. Ramsay nudged the edge
of the fence with his left front fender as he powered past it, still
badly overdriving his lights. He saw a streetlamp's glow a hundred
yards ahead, then squinted into his rearview at the twin beams that
caught him as the Firebird entered the same alleyway. But the Firebird,
still jouncing from that dip in the intersection, had too much weight
to recover its poise in such a short distance. It missed the fence
but evidently not the brick wall, and then Ramsay caught a glimpse
of orange sparks showering an outline of the big car, still pursuing
but now with only one headlight.

Someone
had left a huge pile of trimmings—leaves, grass and small branches—against
a back fence on the right side, and Ramsay slowed just enough to
steer to the left of the mess, brambles screeching down the left
side of the Genie as he slammed his foot on the accelerator again.
His right wheels, whirling through the edge of the trimmings, bounced
hard and then he was past them, risking another look back. The drum
and wail of his Genie were too loud now for him to hear anything
else, but he saw winks of light stutter from the Firebird as if
signaling.

Signal,
my fat ass, he's shooting, Ramsay
thought as his outside rearview mirror exploded three feet from
his face. Then the Firebird driver elected to force his way straight
through the trimmings.
Ramsay had never seen a car stop so fast in his life.

Below
all the grass and leaves lay cordwood, piled in no particular order,
flying forward into the Firebird's single headlight beam as the
car became a bludgeon. Ramsay did not realize until he was turning
left onto the paved street that the Firebird was rocking backward,
then forward, as lights began to wink on in bedrooms that flanked
the alley.

Ramsay
took a right, then another right, then a third, simply because it
seemed the last thing his pursuers would expect. As he flashed back
past the street where he had exited the alley, he spotted the Firebird
lit by a streetlight, turning left as he had done, its entire right
side a ruin, dragging its rear bumper. Before he passed from sight,
he saw the big car's nose dip under heavy braking and assumed he'd
been seen. He took the next right-hand alleyway he found and got
a two-second view of a weedy track that was clear as far as the
next street. He shut off his lights and continued much more slowly,
letting his eyes get accustomed to the light of stars and half a
moon, snarling, Yeahhh, with a raised fist when the
Firebird hurtled up the street, crossing behind him, the bellow
of its engine rising as it kept accelerating. Somewhere in the distance,
sirens hooted.

He
proceeded down the alley for two more blocks, using his lights only
for brief flashes, and turned right onto a paved street after making
certain that no headlights were approaching from any direction.
After a few blocks, he turned his lights on and headed for Route
1 and the District of Columbia.

He
parked as inconspicuously as possible behind a Seven-Eleven, still
trembling, and wondered if his panic flight had condemned Laurie
to death. He tried to tell himself that they would keep her as a
bargaining chip as long as he maintained his silence, but he remained
unconvinced as he entered the phone kiosk and consulted his
memocomp. Ten seconds later he began to whistle a single tone into
the mouthpiece, a tone as shaky as he was.

He
tried another tone less wavering, and when someone lifted the receiver
he said, You called me Mr. C., and you offered me a place
to hide. Well, I need it. I'm in trouble.

Someone
told him to wait. He waited a hell of a long time, it seemed, before
he heard the sleep-fogged voice of Tom Cusick. Understand
you need a safe place. What happened?

Ramsay
told him. Maybe I should've stayed, he added, for
my daughter's sake.

You
did right, said Cusick. Something forced them to change
plans; something major, I think. We'll work on it. Right now, let's
get you picked up. And your rolling toy that anybody can spot a
mile off, we'll need to hide that. Um; you know where we met? You
arrange a breakdown on the street outside. Can you get there in
thirty minutes?

Hell,
I can do better than— Ramsay began. He was only ten minutes
from the Smithsonian.

Just
yes or no, and I make that yes. Try not to get there ahead of time.
Suddenly Ramsay was monitoring a dead line.

He
bought a cup of coffee in the Seven-Eleven and browsed among magazines
as he sipped. Then he drove the Genie toward Jefferson Drive, taking
it slowly, pulling to the curb near the massive Air and Space Museum
with three minutes to spare. A tow truck pulled up behind him two
minutes later, three men shuffling from the big vehicle. One of
them was Cusick, who pointed at the elevated cab and told Ramsay
to stay in it. One minute later they had a huge opaque tarp bundled
around the Genie; in two more,
the Genie's front end swung gently from a cable sling and the truck
was underway again.

Ramsay
finished his account as they drove across the Anacostia River into
Fairmont Heights, Tom Cusick asking a few questions in the interim.
Neither of the other men broke their silence until Ramsay asked,
Why do we need my car, if it's such a giveaway?

That's
why, rumbled the driver, bait, if they really want you.

He
can park it at the NBN studios, Cusick said.

But
not too near the building, just in case, the third man said.
And what if they're waiting?

We'll
run interference with this rig until Ramsay's inside the building,
Cusick replied. But right now, I could use a few hours' sleep.

God,
I'm too wired for that, said Ramsay, but he was wrong. Minutes
after they parked the tow truck and filed into the boarded-up service
station off East Capitol Street, Alan Ramsay was snoring lustily
on an air mattress.

Ramsay
was up by seven and tooling the Genie toward NBN by eight, in the
shadow of a big tow truck that just happened to turn in abreast
of him and loomed so near that parking was difficult. He hurried
upstairs and absorbed the impact of a different and more familiar
reality, as if the outside world were only a hallucination. He sifted
through a stack of callback requests, including one from Lieutenant
Corwin that only said, 'We have your girl,' and he wondered why
Pam Garza had gone to the cops until he was arguing about a feature
with Irv, and then he made the connection that had been too good
to imagine the first time around, and he leaped for Irv's phone
so abruptly that the producer ducked.

He
talked his way past two people before Corwin came
on-line. Corwin, this is Alan Ramsay. Which girl do
you mean?

Gruffly,
but pleased: How many kids do you have, Ramsay? Laurie, of
course. At Ramsay's whoop, which drove the harried producer
from his own office, Corwin went on, She called your place
and talked to your lady friend, who told her to take a taxi direct
to me, and not to budge out of the cop shop without me. She showed
up in the middle of the night at Fourth District HQ in a taxi,
f'God's sake, with somebody's money and somebody's purse and
somebody's gun, and it seems she's whacked out some troll who needed
whacking the worst way, but it still sounds very much like homicide
to me, but not in my district, thank you very much, and—are you
getting this, Ramsay?

Where
the hell is my daughter right now, Ramsay asked, too stunned
by this goofy recital to fully believe it all.

With
me, actually. She tells me you play tricks with coffee makers, is
that true? Ramsay? Hello?

But
Ramsay was already running for the exit.

The
utility van bore a legend on its side, now, with peel-off block
lettering: 'REVIVACAR,' and in smaller letters, '24 hr. service.'
The man in white overalls had opened the hood of the Plymouth next
to the yellow Genie, and jumper cables coiled on the macadam nearby.
Had the Plymouth's owner showed up, it would have been simple for
Bobby Lathrop to claim he'd made an honest mistake.

Twice,
Bobby stiffened, ducking his head into the Plymouth's innards as
mall patrons walked past, but no one seemed curious about his work.

The
second man was harder to spot because only his feet protruded from
beneath the nose of the Genie. His explanation might have been more
creative. Harman worked silently under the Genie while Bobby kept
a nervous watch, and when he
was finished he slid out with very special care. Switched
on, he said, scrambling into the van.

Bobby
lowered the Plymouth's hood, retrieved the jumper cables, and hummed
an old tune as he drove away. The tune was Smoke Gets In Your
Eyes.

A
hundred yards distant, a tow truck driver picked up his all-band
unit. You have your rabbit, Athos?

Hippity-hop,
Porthos. By the way, I made one of those scufflers, knew him from
the old days. He's got my leash on him but it won't activate for
an hour. I'll give him lots of room. Aramis, proceed south on New
Hampshire. And be careful, Porthos, you wouldn't want to make a
report to the nation.

Didn't
know you cared. Porthos out. Tom Cusick put the comm set down,
sighed, and drove the tow truck behind the Genie, taking a small
toolkit and an astonishingly heavy blanket as he stepped down from
the cab. If worst came to worst, the truck would intercept most
of the debris and working from the Kevlar blanket, he might lose
only his arms.

SEVENTEEN

Alan
Ramsay laughed with tears running down his cheeks, holding Laurie
to him, inhaling her scent as she hugged him back. Boy, could
you ever use a bath, he said.

She
wouldn't let me. Oh, Dad, is it true about Mom?

Some
jackass told her, Ramsay; sorry, said Corwin, who stood by.

'Fraid
so, pudd'n, Ramsay nodded, and held Laurie again as she broke
out in fresh sobs. I miss her too. We'll get 'em, wait and
see.

Montgomery
County mounties found the house an hour ago, Corwin put in.
Laurie got one of 'em herself, Christ knows how.

I
told you how, Laurie sniffled. I'm not sorry.

I
don't suppose you'd be averse to making a statement, now that it's
over, Corwin said to Ramsay.

Fine,
when it's over, Ramsay said, but it isn't over.

I
could keep you here, Corwin said. It did not sound much like
a threat.

Ramsay
lowered his daughter to the floor, one arm still draped protectively
around her shoulders. At first I didn't know where you stood;
I mean the police. You—look, can I talk to you where nobody will
tape us? Privileged conversation?

Right.
Not legally privileged, I can't give you that. But I can use my
judgment. Come with me, he said, turning. Ramsay took Laurie
along. It wasn't so much that he wanted her to hear it; merely that
he did not want to let her out of his sight.

.
. . Supposed to stay in the studios, Ramsay, said Tom Cusick,
calling shortly before noon. When the receptionist told me
to call some police lieutenant I thought someone had nailed you.
Why are you—?

My
daughter escaped last night, Ramsay interrupted. She
wound up with the police and I came straight here by taxi. Maybe
that's why Kalvin's people were changing plans. Anybody who calls
me at NBN gets referred to this number.

A
sigh of relief from Cusick. That's the break we needed. You
really have the girl there with you?

Sleeping
like a lamb; she had a busy night, said Ramsay.

Then
maybe we can step up the pace. I suppose the police are tracing
this call, and I'd rather keep a low profile.

Ramsay
glanced across at Corwin, who was using an extension. Corwin, smiling,
shook his head. Lieutenant Corwin is on the extension; he
says not. Anyway, why would you care?

Because
I've broken some laws by not waiting for the so-called proper authorities.
Disarmed a half-pound of plastique under your car chassis two hours
ago. Mercury switch, so it'd
detonate when you backed out or hit a bump.

Lieutenant
Corwin here, Corwin broke in. Have you notified the
Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms people?

No,
I just took the detonator out of the circuit and left the damned
thing where it was, on the front suspension crossmember. You might
get some good prints off the device; but not mine. And two friends
of mine are smooth-tailing the guy who seems to be running this
piece of the operation.

All
we need is a bunch of amateurs, Corwin began.

Professionals.
Retired, but not all that retired, Cusick said dryly. You
want to take it over?

There
are some things they can't take over, Ramsay put in. But
I have a contact who could start from the other end. At the top.

That's
dangerous, said Cusick. Kalvin's thugs are almost certainly
some part of the intelligence community.

We're
wasting time, said Corwin. I have enough facts to start
on, but a set of prints on a car bomb would make all this business
more credible. And I'd feel better if you let us take up the surveillance
you're running. In fact I'm going to have to insist.

Then
you'll want a make on a van license plate, and I've got the number
of a certain motel room that'll bear watching, Cusick replied.
Got a pencil and pad handy?

We're
professionals too, said Corwin. Shoot.

By
late afternoon, Bobby Lathrop began to feel tendrils of prickly
heat on the nape of his neck. He'd tried several times to raise
Pam Garza at her apartment and at work; had even tried Ramsay's
number without success. With twenty-twenty hindsight, he knew he
should've grabbed her the night before instead of howling off in
that futile effort to nail Ramsay.
Harman, who knew better than to go within two hundred yards of the
Genie, had posted himself in the mall where he would hear the explosion.
He had called twice to say the Genie was still intact, unobliterated.
They had to presume Ramsay was still at work, maybe on a remote
job, but sooner or later he'd come back for his toy. Bobby didn't
want to call Unruh yet, but he knew that Unruh, at home on medical
leave or some such, would be furious if that call didn't come. Bobby
knew he should go to a pay phone to call, but then he might miss
a call from Harman. He did it the easy way, with his scrambler,
from the room.

Scrambler
or no scrambler, Unruh didn't sound so hot. No, of course
he hasn't called here; he'd damned well better not, without a scrambler.
Have you got the girl?

Which
girl, Terence?

Any
girl! Or Ramsay. Or any leads
on any of them.

Bobby
tried to explain, but sometimes there was no explaining failure.
He assured Unruh that Ramsay would be accounted for almost any moment
now, and that the Garza woman couldn't just disappear. He said he
didn't know whether there was any fresh action at Jondahl's place.

I
called in a favor, Unruh replied, deliberately vague. Sheriff's
people have an open homicide there, forensics people borrowed from
Gaithersburg. The place is blown, forget it. Unless you left prints
there, he added ominously.

Now
you know I wouldn't be that dumb. And the Firebird's stored, beat
to shit; we're using the van and a rented 'Vette. Listen, you have
to figure that little kid is finding her way home. I could surveil
her apartment, maybe pick her up if she didn't go to the nearest
police cruiser. Unless you could put someone else on it, he
added hopefully. And what do I do with Garza, if I find her?

Hold
incommunicado, either or both of them. I'll see if I can borrow
some assets to find Garza; you can try the

Ramsay
woman's apartment for the little girl, it's already got new tenants,
but watch yourself. Somebody else could be around, God knows who.
And Bobby: call me again the instant you have the news on Ramsay.

Bobby
replaced the receiver thoughtfully, wondering if he was ever going
to have good news on Ramsay.

Seventy
yards away, in the closet-like telephone service module of the motel,
a slender technician pressed a button, then another, then tapped
out an instruction. His companion, older and burly, had given up
on optimism years ago. Too quick for you, he suggested
to the young police tech.

Nope.
It was all scrambled mush, but whoever's on the other end has very
high-tech stuff. And he responded from the rez of one, he
consulted the readout, Terence Unruh. Ever hear of him?

Naw.
But I figure we're going to, said the burly one, after
I call this in to Corwin.

...
And they're here, said the President's secretary, and
the phrase is Code Blue. General Magnuson said you'd understand.
He seems very, ah, intent, Mr. President.

Harrison
Rand leaned forward, flogging his memory. Codes yellow and red dealt
with external threats; Code Blue had something to do with clear
and present internal danger. Well, I suppose it can't
be helped. You'd better ring Walt, he's only across the street.

For
your ears only, sir. That's what they said, sir.

Rand
sighed, threw up his hands, and handed a bundle of unsigned documents
to his aide. Give me one minute, and show them in, he
said to the intercom. To the aide and the two men who stood near
the big desk he said, I'm afraid it'll have to wait, boys.
Use that door, he added with a sweep of his hand. He stood
up, pushing his glasses away from his nose as he dry-washed his
face, wondering what in the
name of the Lord God Almighty was so important that the Army's Magnuson
had to bring Major General McManus of the Defense Intelligence Agency
along for backup.

Magnuson
entered with due respect, a rawboned gray eminence with piercing
eyes, also gray; McManus stayed half a pace behind, shorter, not
so gray but just as grim. They met the Presidential handclasp firmly,
the DIA's McManus glancing around with something more than idle
curiosity. Now what's all this about Code Blue, Rand
asked, smiling.

Recordings,
McManus muttered.

Magnuson:
Right. Mr. President, what I have to tell you is—well, a little
bizarre. I don't think you want it taped. In fact, I think we should
talk downstairs in the Situation Room because your own office, I'm
horrified to say, may not be secure.

Rand
nodded. Anything you can tell me, you can tell Walter Kalvin.
I'm calling him now, he said.

Yessir,
said McManus, before Magnuson could respond. And you may want
to call this person, too. With your permission, Mr. President,
he finished, and scribbled a few words on the notepad in his hand.

Rand
took the paper, saw the words, KALVIN IMPLICATED. ELECTRONICS WHIZ.
He flushed, opened his mouth, then closed it again. Maybe
I can handle this alone, he said then, thrusting the note
in his pocket. He strode into the hallway toward the stairs and
nodded to another aide who crossed his path, but did not speak until
they had been ushered into the map-lined Situation Room with its
quiet whirr of communications equipment. Then: How d'you know
we're secure here?

Because
DIA helps NSA sweep this room regularly, and Walter Kalvin has no
clout here, said Magnuson, omitting the honorific. Then remembering
it: Mr. President, either we've been taken in by the hoax
of the century, or—well, Metropolitan
Police are backing the allegations up to a point. So far the casualties
include Undersecretary Richard Parker; a fine old CIA alumnus named
Wintoon; and a woman who just happened to get in the way. The score
could climb at any time.

General,
do you have any idea how this sounds to me? The President
was smiling gently.

Just
like it sounded to me at fifteen hundred hours, today, when I returned
a call to a man I trust. Guess I'd better start this like a briefing,
Magnuson said. He paused, setting his mental files in order, and
then began. Mr. President, do you ever watch Alan Ramsay on
NBN?

EIGHTEEN

By
eight o'clock the following morning, the desk top in Harrison Rand's
Oval Office resembled a repairman's nightmare. One of the two men
from No Such Agency—an insider's joke for the National Security
Agency—began to remove heavy shielding from around a ceramic container
the size of a man's hand. Electrical leads from the box were still
connected to a maze of wiring that composed elements of the Presidential
telephone system. We can take it out of the system,
he said. Gamma signatures are negative for explosives.

Rand
himself had been cautioned not to enter by McManus, both of them
remaining a safe distance from the suspect device the NSA had found
in the desk. Advised that the Oval Office was safe, the President
strode in with stormclouds on his face, General McManus at his heels.
I think this is thin baloney, gentlemen. My closest friend
would not endanger me, he said.

As
the senior man lowered a screen-equipped device to
the carpet, McManus murmured, Maybe not, Mr. President,
but that box isn't a necessary element, and Kalvin is one of the
few people with access to this room in your absence. Raising
his voice: Walton, what do you make of it?

The
senior man squinted down at the desk. The thing has an antenna
strip. That implies a short-range receiver and relay inside so someone
nearby could activate its circuits, whatever they do. All we know
now is, it may affect the telephone output, it's hermetically sealed,
and it won't blow up.

Harrison
Rand no longer trusted anyone entirely. He was not even certain
that Walt Kalvin had done anything out of line. How do you
know it won't, if you haven't opened it, he said, stepping
back a pace.

Thermal
neutron emitter, said McManus, as the junior man began to
pull the leads from the ceramic box. Explosives will return
characteristic patterns of gamma rays.

The
junior man supplied, It's the sort of thing they're putting
in airports these—Christ, he ended softly, raising his fingers
to his mouth.

They
could all hear faint cracklings from the box, and the polymer protector
beneath it began to smoke. The junior man used diagonal cutters
to sever the other wires as McManus wrestled a segment of shielding
into place. The senior man used the cutters and a screwdriver as
tongs, dropping the box onto the shielding, where it continued to
sizzle for some time. Energy cell, said the senior man,
one'll get you five. Fed from the bus bar and when power's
removed it gives it all back to the internals. Nothing that'd look
incriminating on X-ray or gamma return. We should've given it a
portable power supply.

Rand
approached the device. Could you put that in English?

Yessir.
Whoever installed that box knew enough
electronics to avoid putting explosives in it. We'd find
it in a sweep, which we do regularly. So he set it up to fry its
circuits if anybody tried to disconnect it. Smart. That's what it
did. Heated the whole box up, in fact.

Then
you won't find anything inside?

Probably
nothing useful, sir. The perpetrator was very determined that nobody
else would learn just what that box did.

And
he outsmarted you, said the President.

I'm
dreadfully sorry to say he did, sir. We were just in too big a hurry.

That's
how Walt would think, Rand reflected.
Aloud he said, Well, try and get everything put back so I
can use my confounded office. He gestured for the general
to follow and swept out, heading for the little think tank room.
Then, behind closed doors: McManus, I intend to find out just
what that gizmo did. Any ideas?

Yes,
sir, if you don't believe Ramsay. Let NSA check the cordless mike
you use—and put Kalvin's butt on a griddle.

Walt
keeps it himself. Always did; fanatic about it, Rand said
thoughtfully.

No
doubt. And there's no telling how he's got that booby-trapped.
Maybe his pal, Unruh, would know.

Oh;
CIA, I believe.

Right;
long and distinguished service, but he's a dying man. Metro Police
say Terence Unruh may be running the men who tried to car-bomb Ramsay.
And it's not exactly a long shot for Unruh to be hooked up with
Kalvin. We're letting them run loose for the moment, looking for
wider infection.

Now
the storm began to break, as the righteous Presidential anger of
Harrison Rand began to surface. The Kalvin-Unruh connection, he
knew, was a fact. I still have a few groups to speak to on
that media council thing, which is due for a vote soon. McManus,
I want no action from you whatever,
do you understand? None! Nor a whisper of any of this. I'll get
that cordless mike myself, Walt will want me to use it anyhow.

But
Mr. President—

That's
the end of it! It's a terrible thing to suspect you've gained the
highest office in this country as someone's trained seal, honking
on cue. I will be blast—no, I will be damned if I don't
put an end to it myself.

McManus
started to speak, hesitated, then pressed on: Are you sure
you want to know the answers?

Sighing:
Absolutely. General, in many ways I'm the apotheosis of the
common man. I'm not so stupid that I don't know I have limitations,
and it has been my pride— which goeth before a fall—that my political
career was not built on compromises with corruption. Not that I
knew about. He remained silent for a moment. Then, It
was Warren Harding who said he could handle his enemies but his
friends were ruining him. I won't be another Harding.
He leaned over and activated the intercom. Jeanette, buzz
Walt Kalvin for me; remind him I—we—have a pep talk scheduled
for those hardcore media liberals at two-fifteen. Oh, and Jeanette:
that telephone maintenance never happened. It was a non-event.
He toggled the intercom off. I'm still not certain Walt has
betrayed me, McManus. But I'll admit I'm seeing rat tracks everywhere.

Now
even Harman was getting jumpy, and Bobby Lathrop had to admit the
situation was out of control. No one was using Ramsay's apartment;
the man had still not surfaced. Nor had the kid, or the Garza chick.
Because they didn't want to risk butting heads with NBN security
on its own turf, both men staked themselves out at the mall. Ramsay
was a Name, and sooner or later he'd show up at the studios, probably
by the back entrance where Bobby would see him.

It
was beyond hope that Ramsay would come bouncing across the parking
lot with a hot-looking number beside him; beyond dreaming that the
chick would be Garza. But they must have been using Garza's red
Honda. Bobby barely had time to use his comm set to bring Harman
on the run, before he put himself on an intercept course on foot.
As it happened, his path took him within a few feet of that damned
Genie, which he hadn't looked under because he had too much sense
to risk jouncing it even a little. Hot damn, nothing but dry holes
for an eternity, and now two birds at once!

Bobby's
coat was wide so it would hide the stubby little Ingram stuttergun.
It was no trouble at all for him to move ahead of them near the
back entrance, then turn as they approached, letting the muzzle
protrude so that it showed but would be inconspicuous to distant
shoppers. No yelling or running, folks, he said as the
two of them were even with the yellow Genie, and he saw Ramsay's
gaze fixate on the Ingram. Or I'll drop you right here.

The
Garza hotsy stumbled when she recognized Bobby, saw him in all his
commanding potency. To think I used to follow your orders,
she said.

Ramsay
had one hand in a jacket pocket and Bobby nearly wasted him as the
guy jerked his hands up to steady the woman. But the hands were
empty. You must be suicidal. We're being watched, was
all he said.

Nice
try, Bobby said, seeing no one and feeling pretty good. Now
I want you to turn around and walk nice and steady out to my van.

The
woman looked around, panicky, and Ramsay was pale too, but kept
his head. If I do, I'm dead, he said. And before Bobby
could stop him, he leaned on the Genie!

Bobby
almost fainted. Get away from there! he screamed, flinching,
dropping the Ingram's muzzle, and that's when the Garza bimbo started
slashing him with her nails.

Bobby
hunched, the big shoulders flexing, and elbowed her in the boobs
and nobody would have been fooled by that roundhouse right that
Ramsay threw except that Bobby's attention was split, and he took
only part of the blow on his pectorals, the rest of it rattling
his china, and then the silly bastard was trying to wrestle the
Ingram away from a man who could bench press the Washington Monument.

The
woman started yodeling for help but she had both hands on Bobby's
head, too, razoring across his eyes, and to shake her off he spun
to the left and suddenly Ramsay's footwork got lucky, tangling Bobby's
feet, and when they fell onto the hood of the car all Bobby could
see was yellow, and in his mind, a gigantic black mushroom lifting
them all into the sky. Bobby started yelling some himself at that
point, trying to tell the crazy sonofabitch that little car was
about to blow, but while his mouth was open Ramsay butted him even
though Bobby still had a good grip on the Ingram and could have
taken the older guy with one hand behind him only the Ingram burped,
just three rounds but they all went past Bobby's cheek, and between
trying to protect the trigger and flailing to get up off of the
rocking, shuddering Genie, there wasn't much concentration left
for martial arts.

Bobby
took another head butt in the mouth, his personal chimes ringing
like a carillon, and that's when he began to lose it, wondering
when the fucking bomb would blow, sliding into blackness, letting
go of the gun. At the edge of his awareness, he could hear big feet
pounding near and voices that sounded anything but pleased. Then
Bobby let go of everything.

When
he came to, the first thing he saw was Harman, acting all surprised
and innocent with his forty-five in the hands of a guy in plain
clothes and with Harman himself in the hands of two other guys,
and then somebody was reading them their Mirandas. Don't shove
the fucking car, Bobby
managed to say as they hauled him to his feet. Blow um all
to shit, he explained through broken incisors.

I
doubt it, said the balding plainclothesman. Your little
surprise was disarmed ten minutes after you put it there.

Lithen,
thith ith a mithtake, we're in intelligenthe too, Bobby said.

You
know what you're in, said the old guy. You're in the
dumper. And we're about to flush it.

Walter
Kalvin strolled across the opening from the Executive Office Building
to the West Wing shortly before two p.m. with the Donnersprache
mike in an inside pocket and a set of unanswered questions beating
in his skull. If Unruh didn't produce Ramsay or the kid by sundown,
it would be time for some give and take with Harry Rand. Harry,
devout do-gooder that he was, was still only a man, with a human
failing where power was concerned. And whatever else Walt might
have done, he could claim that he'd done it for Harry, and for the
American people.

And
if that didn't work, there was always that little fling Harry had
taken with Pam Garza a decade before. Harry would give a lot to
keep that out of the news, and even more to keep it from Bea Rand.

Before
going to the Oval Office Kalvin detoured quickly down to the theatre,
nodding to the security staff, taking a quick look through a viewport
into the theatre. He had the list of attendees, but you never knew
when Showers might lobby to have a couple of extras, and—

Kalvin
blinked, denying the testimony of his eyes, while a flood of liquid
helium poured through his veins. All the major networks were represented,
which was merely irksome. The horrifying image was the sight of
Alan Ramsay, looking as though he could hardly wait for Harry's
little speech.

And
why would Ramsay let himself be dragged within a mile of the White
House, knowing what he knew? Only if he had protection I don't
know about, Kalvin's pessimism replied.

Walter
Kalvin turned on his heel and hurried up the stairs, not quite running.
No one seemed to notice when he trotted from the West Wing back
toward his own office, but he was breathless as he turned the corner
in the hallway. In thirty seconds he could have the spare Donnersprache,
the fake ID, and the money he kept in his wall safe.

His
secretary was not on duty, and that alerted him. What electrified
him were the men he saw as he eased a two-inch crack in the door
to his inner office. Burly, clean-cut, in dark three piece suits,
they were doing a careful toss of his office. Or rather, one was
doing the toss, very quietly. The other stood before the wall safe,
attending to a digital meter with leads to suction cups on the face
of the safe. Probably FBI.

Kalvin
took several steps backward in silence. As he reached the hallway
he began to run.

Though
Falls Church adjoins Arlington, it retains its own frumpy character.
Kalvin left the Greyhound local and then watched the sun disappear
beyond the old rooftops along Broad Street, expecting the car from
the east, toward Arlington, because that was where Unruh lived.
Kalvin had lost his touch with this kind of skulking in thirty years,
and did not recognize the blue Caddie until it nearly ran him down.

Terry
Unruh had been a good-looking specimen only a few months before.
Late shadows accentuated the ravages to the flesh of his face. Unruh's
was a death's head, almost bald, with a gray pallor. My wife
tried to stop me, said Unruh as the Caddie bore them toward
a pink sunset. She outweighs me, now.

Kalvin
was in no mood to make small talk, and changed the subject. They'll
be watching every major airport, but of course you'd know that,
he said.

The
death's head nodded. Leesburg Municipal is not a major airport,
it said. You have the full exfiltration kit? Enough cash?

Enough.
But I couldn't take the risk of hitting my safe deposit boxes.
I did transfer a small fortune from one offshore bank to another;
both Brit. I wonder what you'd do if you knew that Bermuda account
of yours was gutted now. You might suspect that if you knew I was
low on cash.

Unruh
drove expertly for a dead man. He overtook a limo, probably headed
for Dulles, and settled back into the traffic stream. We'll
have to wait 'til dark. After that it's only a two hour hop to Canada,
he said.

Kalvin
made no reply, keeping his frustrations in check because Unruh was
his lifeline. A few miles farther, Unruh snapped on his lights.
You know, I never did have a clear picture what you were up
to, Kalvin.

You'll
hear enough about it, I'm sure.

Oh,
I already have, right after I got your mayday this afternoon. Mid-level
spook, friend of mine. He didn't dream I might be connected with
you; must be kicking himself by now. A long silence ensued.
Unruh broke it himself. I had the idea that this was just
some little political edge of yours, nothing that'd change things
much, no worse than the nits you find in any administration. Imagine
my surprise, he added with rich sarcasm.

I'd
rather not discuss it, Kalvin said, as Unruh swung the Caddie
off of the Leesburg Pike.

Why
not? You must be the most convincing discusser since Moses heard
from the burning bush. Why didn't you use that charisma machine
yourself?

It
helps to have the right voice to begin with, Kalvin said grudgingly.
And the right background.

Like
being born with U.S. citizenship? That occurred
to me this afternoon.'' Now Unruh turned off the paved county
road onto a rutted farm access path. To their right, no more than
a few miles distant, an airport beacon flashed its brief surge of
welcome. The Caddie slowed, then stopped.

Don't
tell me, said Kalvin, keeping his tone steady despite a thrill
of alarm.

No,
you tell me, said Unruh, sounding very tired.
Use your powers of electronic persuasion. Or won't it
work without a boxful of equipment?

Start
the fucking car, Terry, said Kalvin; and when Unruh did not
move, he drew the Donnersprache mike from his coat. Here it
is. Is this your price for getting me exfiltrated? Take it,
he said. With the microfilmed diagrams in my billfold, I can
build more when I get to Argentina.

As
Terence Unruh took the cordless mike, like a cold sceptre signaling
the transfer of power, he laughed briefly. It became a cough, and
required all of Unruh's strength to control. You've already
paid my price, he said, and drew a stubby little automatic
with his left hand. But there's a price for freedom; everybody's,
I mean. They always told me that price was eternal vigilance. Sounds
terribly mundane, doesn't it?

Walter
Kalvin said nothing, waiting for Unruh to pick up the dialogue;
to lead him to some further compromise. The last, and most horrifying,
surprise of his life was the simultaneous sound and shock of a short
nine-millimeter round entering his left side.

No
messy trials for us, Kalvin, said Unruh.

Because
the little weapon had only modest impact, Kalvin was able to turn,
grappling for the pistol, though he already felt something hideously
wrong with his lungs. The second and third rounds seemed not quite
so loud, their impacts less astounding. No! Enough,
he said, and oddly enough, Unruh did not fire again. Through a
vast sense of disappointment, and shock that had somehow
not entirely converted to pain, Kalvin realized that he was going
to die more in curiosity than in agony. You expect to use
it yourself?

Only
the instrument cluster lit the face of Terence Unruh, a corpse face
in faint green reflection. No. This is more important than
money to my children. I'm turning it in.

Now
Kalvin felt himself sliding sideways and fumbled in his pocket with
his right hand for the microphone's remote controller. No
you won't, he said, now with a sense of fullness as internal
bleeding took its course. He could no longer see Unruh, but he could
feel the device in his pocket.

The
cordless microphone contained only fifty grams of explosive, not
enough to completely demolish the car. But the concussion wave and
flying particles were enough to eliminate all pain and disappointment
from both men forever.

NINETEEN

...And
so it seems that we live by catch phrases,
said Alan Ramsay, beginning his windup of 'The Ramsay File' before
eighty million Americans. In less than forty-eight hours, the Donnersprache
unit from Kalvin's wall safe had been disarmed and analyzed. Ramsay
leaned against a display table as he spoke, sometimes using the
cordless mike to demonstrate it, while the pointers of delicate
meters responded to enhanced elements of resonance and pitch. But
we can be destroyed by catch phrases, too, when they happen to be
the wrong ones, made artificially attractive.

He
raised the microphone again. Violence never settled anything,
he intoned, glancing at the meters, adding, and if you believe
that, you never saw a war, a catfight, or a football game.
Now he smiled faintly. You can't cheat an honest man. Democracy
means that all opinions are equal. And finally, cheaters never win.
He lowered the mike, looking at it as though it were something to
scrape off his shoe. Well,
in this case the cheater finally lost; but we'd be well advised
not to count on it.

And
what's to be done with this little device, now that our Chief Executive
has denounced its use? That isn't my decision, of course. But it
seems that we have several options: make it available from Radio
Shack for twenty-nine ninety-five, perhaps. Outlaw it as we did
anabolic steroids and subliminal advertising? Maybe. Our chief defense
springs from the same technology that created it; now that we can
spot it, we'll know when it's being used against us.

Because
it is a weapon against us, against the kind of critical
thinking that separates truth from lies. Nazi Germany had a leader
who used Donnersprache with deliberate savagery. The measure of
Harrison Rand is that, even though the device—arguably—put him in
the White House, he reacted with courage, and outrage, when he discovered
it. In the game of politics, where power is the name of the game,
how could we ask for more?

From
Washington, this is Alan Ramsay for NBN.

As
the monitor light winked out, Ramsay turned to retrieve the central
exhibit, handing it to one of the team detailed to secure it. Grinning,
the man said, Radio Shack! Don't hold your breath.

Avoid
giving long odds, Ramsay said. Your grandfather could've
bought a kingdom for a radar detector.

Irv,
his headset awry, gripped Ramsay's arm with both hands in jubilation.
Knockout, Alan, just bleeding dynamite! If this didn't outdraw
the Super Bowl, I'll buy dinner.

I'll
take a rain check; got a date with two gorgeous creatures,
Ramsay cracked, pulling off his tie, hurrying toward a floorman
who offered the usual towel so that he could begin ridding himself
of makeup.

Minutes
later, face scrubbed, Ramsay found Laurie waiting with Pam Garza.
Laurie seemed undecided whether
to shake his hand or leap into his arms and compromised by hugging
him around the midriff. You were great, Dad, she beamed.

Pam
gave him a chaste kiss and fell in step with the Ramsays. You
showed a lot of restraint, she said. If I hadn't listened
carefully I wouldn't have known you had any personal involvement.

Modest
heroism is my forte, he said, deadpan, then winked. Anyway,
I already knew I'm scheduled for the cover of Newsweek.
Laurie squealed and applauded. I passed over Tom Cusick's
group, too; their idea, actually. Publicity wouldn't do them any
good. Unruh's family, either. From that note he left, he must've
known he wasn't coming back. There's poetic justice for you; some
people I loved aren't coming back either because of him.

Hey,
you haven't mentioned our new outfits, Pam said, trying to
divert his train of thought, preening in her finery. You said
'just short of formal,' but you didn't say which McDonald's you
had in mind.

Smartass,
Ramsay replied. Let's just say someone else is picking up
the tab for the limo.

Limo?
Wow, Dad, Laurie marveled. You've gotta tell us where.

Well,
uh—believe it or not, the White House, pudd'n.

Pam
hesitated. Me, too? Alan, you know why I can't— much as I'd
love to.

Sure
you can, he said. All that stuff happened a long time
ago, to two different people. Just look him in the eye, but curtsy
while you do it.

My
God, she said, and then giggled. He's probably after
your vote.

Trotting
down the stairs toward the front entrance, Ramsay laughed aloud.
That'll be the day; our retreaded
preacher is a lousy judge of character. But I have an idea
he'd be a great companion on a hunting trip.

He
leaned forward to open a door and stumbled, laughing at himself,
as it was opened for him. Outside, the limo waited.

eBook Info

Identifier:

BILUFMQLTR

Title:

-SILENT- THUNDER

Creator:

DEAN ING

Date:

8/27/2002