Silent Thunder Part 11

Recordings, McMa.n.u.s 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 McMa.n.u.s, 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 McMa.n.u.s, both of them remaining a safe distance from the suspect device the NSA had found in the desk. Advised that theOval Office was safe, the President strode in with stormclouds on his face, General McMa.n.u.s 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, McMa.n.u.s 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 McMa.n.u.s, 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 McMa.n.u.s 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 n.o.body 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: McMa.n.u.s, 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 b.u.t.t 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 b.o.o.by-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. McMa.n.u.s, 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 d.a.m.ned if I don't put an end to it myself.

McMa.n.u.s 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, McMa.n.u.s. 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 b.u.t.ting 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 commset 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 d.a.m.ned Genie, which he hadn't looked under because he had too much sense to risk jouncing it even a little. Hot d.a.m.n, 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 b.o.o.bs and n.o.body 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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 sonofab.i.t.c.h that little car was about to blow, but while his mouth was open Ramsay b.u.t.ted 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 b.u.t.t in the mouth, his personal chimes ringing like a carillon, and that's when he began to lose it, wondering when the f.u.c.king 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 innocentwith 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 f.u.c.king car, Bobby managed to say as they hauled him to his feet. Blow um all to s.h.i.t, 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 torun.

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 Munic.i.p.al 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 offsh.o.r.e 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 f.u.c.king 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 cl.u.s.ter 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 a.n.a.lyzed.

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 sc.r.a.pe 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. n.a.z.i 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.