Terminal Compromise Part 57

I read about it today. The crash was yesterday.

DO ANY OF THE OTHERS KNOW?

It would not matter if they did. They are loyal.

The papers said nothing of the van. They cared only about the Americans who died eating their breakfasts.

GOOD. REMOVE ALL EVIDENCE. REPLACE HIM.

It will be done.

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Monday, November 30 New York City

The fire at the New York City Police Impound on 22nd Street and the Hudson River was not newsworthy. It caused, however, a deluge of paperwork for the Sergeant whose job it was to guard the confiscated vehicles. Most of those cars damaged in the firestorm had been towed for parking infractions. It would cost the city tens of thousands of dollars, but not at least for three or four months. The city would take as long as possible to proc- ess the claims. Jesef Mumballa's vehicle was completely destroyed as per h.o.m.osoto's order. The explosion that had caused the fire was identified as coming from his van, but little importance was placed with that obscure fact.

Ben Sh.e.l.lhorne noticed, though. Wasn't that the van that Scott Mason had shown such interest in yesterday? A car bombing, even if on police property was not a particularly interesting story, at least in New York. But Ben wanted the drink that Scott had promised. Maybe he could parlay it into two.

"Scott, remember that van?" Ben called Scott on the internal office phones.

"Yeah, what about it?"

"It's gone."

"What do you mean gone?"

"Somebody blew it up. Took half the cars in the impound with it.

Sounds like Cemex. Just thought you might care. You were pretty hot about seeing it ." Scott enjoyed Ben's nonchalance. He decided to play it cool.

"Yeah, thanks for the call. Looks like another lead down the tubes."

"Know whatcha mean."

Scott called Tyrone at his office.

"4543." Duncan answered obliquely.

"Just an anonymous call." Scott didn't disguise his voice. The message would be obvious.

"So?"

"A certain van in a certain police impound was just blown up.

Seemed le Plastique was involved. Thought you might want to know."

"Thanks." The phone went dead.

Within 30 minutes, 6 FBI agents arrived at the police impound station. It looked like a war zone. Vehicles were strewn about, many the victim of fire, many with substantial pieces missing.

With the signature of the New York District Chief on appropriate forms, the FBI took possession of one Ford Econoline van, or what was left of it. The New York police were just as glad to be rid of it. It was one less mess they had to worry about. Fine, take it. It's yours. Just make sure that the paperwork covers ours a.s.ses. Good, that seems to do it. Now get out. Frigging Feds.

Tyrone Duncan took an evening Trump Shuttle down to Washington's National Airport. The 7:30 flight was dubbed the Federal Express by the stewardesses because it was primarily congressmen, diplo- mats and other Washington denizens who took this flight. They wanted to get to D.C. before the c.o.c.ktail parties began and found the 2-drink flight an excellent means to tune up. Duncan was met out in front by a driver who held up a sign that read 'Burnson'.

He got into the car in silence and was driven to a residence on "P" Street off Wisconsin in Georgetown. The brick townhouse looked like every other million dollar home in the affluent Washington bedroom community. But this one was special. It not only served as a home away from home for Bob Burnson when he worked late, but it was also a common neutral meeting place far from prying eyes and ears. This night was one such case.

An older, matronly lady answered the door.

"May I help you?" She went through the formality for the few accidental tourists who rang the bell.

"I'm here to see Mr. Merriweather. He's expecting me." Merri- weather was the nom-de-guerre of Bob Burnson, at least at this location. Duncan was ushered into the elegant old sitting room, where the butleress closed the door behind him. He double- checked that she was gone and walked over to the fireplace. The marble facade was worn in places, from overuse he a.s.sumed, but nonetheless, traces of its 19th century elegance remained. He looked up at the large full length standing portrait of a somber, formal man dressed in a three piece suit. Undoubtedly this vain portrait was his only remaining legacy, whoever he was. Tyrone pressed a small b.u.t.ton built into the side of the picture frame.

An adjoining bookcase slipped back into the wall, exposing a dark entry. Duncan squeezed his bulk through the narrow wedge provided by the opened bookcase.

The blank wall behind him closed and the lights in the room he entered slowly brightened. Three people were seated at an over- sized table with black modern executive chairs around it. The room was large. Too large to fit behind the 18 foot width of a Georgetown brownstone. The adjacent building must be an ersatz cover for the privacy that this domicile required. The room was simple, but formal. Stark white walls and their nondescript modern paintings were illuminated by recessed lights. The black trim work was the only accent that the frugal decorator permit- ted.

His old friend and superior Bob Burnson was seated in the middle.

The other two men were civil servants in their mid 40's as near as Duncan could determine. Both wore Government issue blue suits, white shirts and diagonally striped maroon ties. Their hair was regulation above the ears, immaculately kept. Reminded Duncan of the junior clerks on Wall Street. They could only afford suits from the discount racks, but still tried to make a decent impression. The attempt usually failed, but G-Men stuck to the tradition of poor dress. He had never seen either of the men that flanked Burnson, which wasn't unusual. He was a New Yorker who carefully avoided the cacophony of Washington poli- tics. He played the political game once nearly 30 years ago to secure his position, but he had studiously avoided it since.

"Thanks for making it on such short notice," Burnson solicitous- ly greeted Duncan. He did it for the benefit of the others present.

"Yes sir. Glad to help." Duncan groaned through the lie. He had been ordered to this command performance.

"This is," Burnson gestured to his right, "Martin Templer, our CIA liaison, and," pointing to his left, "Charlie Sorenson, a.s.sistant DIRNSA, from the Fort." They all shook hands perfunc- torily. "Care for a drink?" Burnson asked. "We're not on Government time."

Duncan looked and saw they were all drinking something other than c.o.ke. The bar behind them showed recent use. "Absolut on the rocks. If you have it." It was Duncan's first time to 'P Street' as this well disguised location was called. Burnson rose and poured the vodka over perfectly formed ice cubes. He handed the drink to Duncan and indicated he should take a seat.

They exchanged pleasantries, and Duncan spoke of the improvement in the Northeast corridor Shuttle service; the flight was almost on time. Enough of the niceties.

"We don't want to hold you up more than necessary, but since you were here in town we thought we could discuss a couple of mat- ters." Burnson was the only one to speak. The others watched Duncan too closely for his taste. What a white wash. He was called down here, p.r.o.nto. Since I'm here, my a.s.s.

"No problem sir." He carried the charade forward.

"We need to know more about your report. This morning's report."

Sorenson, the NSA man spoke. "It was most intriguing. Can you fill us in?" He sipped his drink while maintaining eye contact with Duncan.

"Well, there's not much to say beyond what I put in." Suspicion was evident in Duncan's voice. "I think that it's a real possi- bility that there is a group who may be using highly advanced computer equipment as weapons. Or at least surveillance tools.

A ma.s.sive operation is suspected. I think I explained that in my report."

"You did Tyrone," Bob agreed. "It's just that there may be additional considerations that you're not aware of. Things I wasn't even aware of. Charlie, can you elaborate?" Bob looked at the NSA man in deference.

"Thanks, Bob, be glad to." Charlie Sorenson was a seasoned spook. His casual manner was definitely practiced. "Basically, we're following up on the matter of the van you reported, and the alleged equipment it held." He scanned the folder in front of him. "It says here," he perused, "that you discovered that indi- viduals have learned how to read computer signals, unbeknownst to the computer users." He looked up at Duncan for a confirmation.

Tyrone felt slightly uncomfortable. "Is that right?"

"Yes, sir," Duncan replied. "From the information we've received, it appears that a group has the ability to detect computer radia- tion from great distances. This technique allows someone to compromise computer privacy . . ."

"We know what it is Mr. Duncan." The NSA man cut him off abrupt- ly. Duncan looked at Burnson who avoided his stare. "What we want to know is, how do you know? How do you know what CMR radiation is?" There was no smile or sense of warmth from the inquisitor. Not that there had been since the unpropitious beginning of this evening.