Lieutenant Commander Thomas Decker walked into the study of Sterile Five, escorted by two men from the White House Secret Service. His angular face was set, and he looked both purposeful and anxious. The broad-shouldered frame under the well-tailored blue uniform was that of a man who kept in shape not from enjoyment but from compulsion; the body was too rigid, with too little fluidity in its movement. But it was the face that fascinated Havelock. It was a hard-shelled mask about to crack, and once that process started, it would shatter. Strength, purpose, and anxiety aside, Decker was petrified, and try as he might, he could not conceal his inner terror.
Michael spoke, addressing the Secret Service detail. “Thanks very much, gentlemen. The kitchen is outside to the right, at the end of the hallway. The cook will find you something to eat—beer, coffee, whatever you want. I’m sure I’ve interrupted your dinner break and I don’t know when we’ll be finished here. Make any phone calls you like, of course.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the man on Decker’s left, nodding to his companion, as they both turned and started for the door.
“You’ve also interrupted my dinner, and I expect—”
“Shut up, Commander,” broke in Havelock quietly.
The door closed, and Decker took several angry steps toward the desk, but the anger was too contrived, too forced. It had been summoned to replace the fear. “I have an engagement this evening with Admiral James at the Fifth Naval District!”
“He’s been informed that pressing naval business precludes your being there.”
“This is outrageous! I demand an explanation!”
“You’re entitled to a firing squad.” Havelock rose as Decker gasped. “I think you know why.”
“you! “The officer’s eyes grew wide; he swallowed as the color left his mask of a face. “You’re the one who’s been calling me, asking me those questions! Telling me … a very great man … doesn’t remember! It’s a lie!”
“It’s the truth,” said Michael simply. “But you can’t understand, and it’s been driving you up the wall. It’s all you’ve been thinking about since I told you—because you know what you’ve done.”
Decker became rigid again, brows arched, eyes clouded, a military man having given his serial number but refusing any subsequent interrogation despite impending torture. “I have nothing to say to you, Mr. Cross. It is Cross, isn’t it?”
“It’ll do,” said Havelock, nodding once. “But you’ve got a great deal to say, and you are going to say it. Because if you don’t, a presidential order will send you to the deepest cell in Leavenworth and the key will be thrown away. To put you on trial would be far too dangerous to the security of this country.”
“No! … You can’t! I did nothing wrong! I was right, we were right!”
“The Joint Chiefs and key members of the House and Senate will agree,” continued Michael. “It’ll be one of the few times when the umbrella of national security will be completely valid.”
The mask cracked; the face shattered. Fear turned to desperation as Decker whispered, “What do they say I’ve done?”
“In violation of your oath as an officer and the codes of secrecy you’ve sworn to uphold, you reproduced dozens of the most sensitive documents in this country’s military history and removed them from the Pentagon.”
“And to whom did I deliver them? Answer me that.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“You had no authorization.”
“That man has all the authority he needs!” Decker’s voice trembled as he tried to regain control. “I demand that you get Secretary of State Matthias on the phone.”
Havelock walked away from the desk, away from the telephone. The movement was not lost on the naval officer. It was the moment to retreat slightly. “I’ve been given my orders, Commander,” said Michael, permitting a degree of uncertainty in his own voice. “By the President and several of his closest advisers. The Secretary of State is not to be consulted in this matter under any circumstances whatsoever. He’s not to be informed. I don’t know why, but those are my orders.”
Decker took a halting step, then another, zeal joining the desperation in his wide, frantic eyes. He began barely above a whisper, the words growing louder with a zealot’s conviction. “The President? His advisers …? For God’s sake, can’t you see? Of course they don’t want him informed because he’s right and they’re wrong. They’re afraid and he isn’t! Do you think for a moment if I disappeared he wouldn’t know what had happened? Do you think he wouldn’t confront the President and his advisers and force a showdown? You talk about the Joint Chiefs, members of the House and the Senate. My God, do you think he couldn’t call them together and show what a weak, ineffectual, immoral administration this really is? There’d be no administration! It would be repudiated, crippled, thrown out!”
“By whom, Commander?”
Decker straightened his broad-shouldered body, a condemned man knowing that ultimate justice would bring a pardon. “The people, Mr. Cross. The people of this nation recognize a giant. They won’t turn their backs on him because a hack politician and his weak-kneed advisers say so. They won’t stand for it! The world has lamented the loss of great leadership these past few decades. Well, we produced a great leader and the world knows it. And my advice to you is to get Anthony Matthias on the telephone. You don’t have to say anything, I,ll speak to him.”
Havelock stood motionless, something more than uncertainty now in his voice. “You believe there could be a showdown? The President—impeached?”
“Look at Matthias. Can you doubt it? Where in the last thirty years has there been a man like him?”
Michael slowly walked back to the desk and lowered himself into the chair, glancing up at Decker. “Sit down, Commander,” he said.
Decker quickly sat in the chair that Havelock had purposely placed in front of the desk. “We’ve used some harsh words with each other, and for my part I apologize. But you must understand. We are right.”
“I need more than that,” said Havelock. “We know you removed copies of detailed strategies developed by the Nuclear Contingency Committees, documents that spelled out everything in our own arsenals as well as the results of our deepest penetrations of both the Soviet and Chinese systems. You delivered these to Matthias over a period of months, but we’ve never understood why. If you could tell me, give me a reason. Why?”
“For the most obvious reason in the world! It goes back to the key word in the title of those committees. ‘Contingency.’ Contingency, Mr. Cross, always contingency! Reaction—reaction to this, reaction to that! Always replying, never initiating! We don’t need contingencies. We can’t let our enemies think we’ll only respond. We need a master plan, let them know we have a master plan that will ensure their total destruction should they transgress. Our strength, our survival, can no longer be based on defense, Mr. Cross, it must be based on offense! Anthony Matthias understands this. The others are afraid to face it.”
“And you helped him develop this—master plan?”
“I’m proud to say I contributed,” said the officer, his words rushed—the pardon was in sight. “I sat with him hour after hour going over every conceivable nuclear option, every possible Soviet and Chinese response, not a single capability overlooked.”
“When did you meet?”
“Every Sunday, for weeks on end.” Decker lowered his voice, confidentiality joined now with zeal and desperation. “He impressed on me the highly classified nature of our relationship, so I’d drive out in a rented car to his lodge in West Virginia, to a cabin on the secondary road where we’d meet alone.”
“The Woodshed,” said Michael, the word escaping from him.
“You know it, then?”
“I’ve been there.” Havelock briefly closed his eyes; he knew the Woodshed only too well. A small cabin retreat where Anton went to work on his projected memoirs—to talk out his thoughts, every phrase picked up by a voice—activated tape recorder. “Is there anything else? I want you to know I’m listening, Commander. You’re very impressive—and I’m listening.”
“He’s such a truly brilliant man,” continued Decker, his tone close to an awestruck whisper, his eyes gazing on some unseen holy light. “That probing mind, the depth of his every observation, his grasp of global realities—all truly remarkable. A statesman like Anthony Matthias can take this nation to its zenith, bring us to where we were meant to be in the eyes of man and God. Yes, I did what I did and I’d do it again, because I’m a patriot. I love this country as I love the Scriptures, and I would lay down my life for it, knowing that I would retain my honor.… There really is no choice, Mr. Cross. We are right. Pick up the phone and call Matthias, tell him I’m here. And I’ll tell him the truth. Small men who worship graven images have crawled out of the ground and are trying to destroy him. He’ll stamp them out-with our help.”
Michael leaned back in the chair, the weariness, the futility, as complete as they had ever been. “ ‘With our help,’ “he repeated in a voice so low he was barely aware he had spoken.
“Yes, of course!”
Havelock shook his head slowly back and forth. “You sanctimonious son of a bitch,” he said.
“What?”
“You heard me. You sanctimonious son of a bttch!” Michael roared. Then he breathed deeply and continued quietly, rapidly, “You want me to call Matthias? I wish to hell I could, just to watch your goddamn face, to see your steely, self-righteous eyes grow wild when you learn the truth.”
“What are you talking about?” whispered Decker.
“Matthias wouldn’t know who you are! Any more than he knows who the President is, or his aides, or the undersecretaries, or the diplomats he works with every day-or me, who’s known him for over twenty years, closer to him than any other person alive.”
“No … no, you’re wrong. No!”
“Yes, Commander! He broke. More precisely, we broke him. That mind is gone! It’s shattered. He’s insane. He couldn’t take it any longer. And, by Christ, you did your part. You gave him his ultimate authority, his final responsibility. You stole the world’s—yes, the world’s—secrets and told him his genius could handle them. You took a thousand facts and a hundred theoretical strategies, mixed them up, and turned them into the most terrifying weapon this earth has ever known. A blueprint for global annihilation.”
“That’s not what I did!”
“Granted, not all by yourself, but you provided the—what the hell’s that God-awful Pentagonese?—support structure, that’s it. You provided the support structure for a fiction that’s so real there’s not a nuclear expert alive who wouldn’t accept it as truth. Gospel truth, if you like, Commander.”
“We only discussed, analyzed, tore apart options! The final plan was to be his; you can’t understand. His grasp was brilliant! There was nothing he couldn’t comprehend; it was incredible!”
“It was the act of a mind dying, on the edge of becoming a convoluted vegetable. He wanted you to believe, and he was still good enough to make you believe. He had to, and you wanted to.”
“I did! So would you!”
“That’s what I’ve been told by a better man than you’ll ever be.”
“I don’t deserve that. He appealed to a truth I do believe in. We must be strong!”
“I don’t know any sane person who would argue with that, but there are different kinds and degrees of strength. Some work—usually quietly; others don’t, because they’re swollen with bellicosity. The savage explodes from his own tension; he can’t contain himself, he’s got to flex. And somewhere along the line he blows up, setting in motion a dozen responses that are explosions themselves.”
“Who are you? What are you?”
“A student of history who went astray. But I’m not the issue. You are. Everything you gave Matthias is within arm’s reach of the Soviets, Commander. That master plan, which you’re so convinced we must let the world know we have, may in all its details be on its way to Moscow. Because the man you gave it to is insane, was on his way to becoming insane when you delivered the materials to him.”
Decker rose slowly from the chair. “I don’t believe you,” he said, his voice hollow, the words spoken in dread.
“Then why am I here? Why would I say it? Personal considerations aside, do you think anyone with the brains to get out of the rain wants to make that statement? Have you any idea what it means to this country to know that the mind of its Secretary of State has been destroyed? I’d like to remind you, Commander, that you don’t have an exclusive claim on patriotism. None of us does.”
Decker stared down at Havelock until he could no longer bear the contact. He turned away, the broad-shouldered body somehow shrinking beneath the tunic. “You tricked me. You made me say things I never would have said.”
“It’s my job.”
“Everything’s over for me. I’m finished.”
“Maybe not. As of this moment, I’d guess you are the least likely candidate as a security risk in the Pentagon. You’ve been burned by a legend and it’s a pain you’ll never forget. Nobody knows better than I do how persuasive Matthias could be.… We need help, not prison sentences. Packing you off to Leavenworth would only raise questions no one wants raised. We’re in a blind race; maybe you can help.”
Decker turned, swallowing, his face ashen. “In any way I can. How?”
Michael got out of the chair and came around the desk to face the officer. “For starters, nothing I’ve told you can be repeated.”
“My God, of course not.”
“No, of course not. You’d be hanging yourself.”
“I’d be hanging the country. I have no exclusivity on patriotism, but I am a patriot, Mr. Cross.”
Havelock walked past the coffee table and the couch, and was reminded of Jenna’s absence. Since they had agreed her presence would be inhibiting, she was upstairs; more accurately, she had insisted on not being there. He reached the wall, aimlessly studied a brass plaque, and spoke. “I’m going to guess again, Commander. There came a time when Matthias wouldn’t see you anymore. Am I right?”
“Yes. I phoned repeatedly—not at State, of course—but he never returned my calls.”
“Not at State?” asked Michael, turning. “But you did call there. It’s how I found you.”
“Only three times. Twice to say there were Sunday conferences at the Pentagon, and once to tell him I was going into the hospital for minor surgery on a Friday and expected to be there until Tuesday or Wednesday. He was very solicitous, but that was when he told me never again to reach him at the State Department.”
“You called the lodge, then?”
“And his house in Georgetown.”
“This was later?”
“Yes. I called night after night, but he wouldn’t come to the phone. Try to understand, Mr. Cross. I was aware of what I’d done, of the enormity of the violation I’d committed. Mind you, until a few minutes ago I never regretted it; I can’t change my beliefs, they’re ingrained in me. But back then—five or six months ago—I was bewildered, frightened perhaps, I’m not sure. I’d been left stranded—”
“You were in withdrawal,” interrupted Havelock. “You’d been on a high, on one of the most potent narcotics in the world. Anthony Matthias. Suddenly he wasn’t there any longer.”
“Yes, that’s it. Those were heady days, magnificent memories. Then I don’t know why, my connection to greatness ended. I thought perhaps it was something I’d done that displeased him, or information I’d brought him that was deficient, incomplete. I didn’t know; I just knew that I’d been cut off, with no explanation.”
“I understand,” said Michael, remembering so clearly the night in Cagnes-sur-Mer when his přítel did not come to the telephone five thousand miles away. “I’m surprised you didn’t force the issue, confront him somehow, somewhere. You were entitled to that explanation.”
“I didn’t have to. It was finally given to me.”
“What?”
“One evening, after I’d tried to reach him again, to no avail again, a man called me back. A very strange man—”
The prolonged outburst of the phone shattered the moment, blowing apart the taut line of concentration. Havelock ran to the phone, to the sustained ring that signaled Emergency.
“It’s Loring,” said the strained voice in a half-whisper. “I’m hit. I’m okay, but I’m hit.”
“Where are you?”
“A motel on Highway Three-seventeen, near Harrington. The Pheasant Run Motel Cabin Twelve.”
“I’ll send a doctor.”
“A very special doctor, Havelock. Use the field in Denton.”
“What do you mean?”
“I had to get out of there. I grabbed a police car—”
“A police …? Why?”
“I’ll tell you later. Everything.… Special doctor with a bagful of needles.”
“For Christ’s sake, spell it out, Charley!”
“I’ve got one of those sons of bitches. He’s strapped naked on the bed—no capsules, no razors. I’ve got one!”
Havelock stabbed the buttons on the Sterile Five telephone one after another, issuing orders one after another, as Lieutenant Commander Decker stood rigidly across the room, watching, listening, a helpless shell of a crusader whose cause had collapsed. The President was informed, and a very special doctor was being tracked down, to be sent to Maryland by helicopter, a Secret Service detail accompanying him. A second helicopter was prepared for takeoff, waiting for Michael at the field in Quantico six miles away; he would be driven there by the Secret Service escorts who had brought Decker to Sterile Five. The final call placed by Havelock was within the house itself. Upstairs. To Jenna Karas.
“I have to leave. It’s Loring in Maryland. He’s wounded, but he may have picked up a traveler—don’t ask me how. And you were right. One source. He’s here and has more to say; please come down and take it. I have to go.… Thanks.”
Michael got up from the desk and addressed the frightened naval officer. “A lady’s on her way here, and I’m ordering you—ordering you, Commander—to tell her everything you were going to tell me, and answer fully any questions she may ask. Your escort will be back in twenty minutes or so. When you’re finished, and only if she agrees, you may go. But once you reach your house you’re not to leave it for any reason whatsoever. You’ll be watched.”
Havelock grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair and started toward the door. He stopped and turned to Decker, his hand on the knob. “Incidentally, her name is Mrs. Cross.”
All low-flying traffic was diverted as the two helicopters roared into the small private field in Denton, Maryland, the aircraft from the Bethesda Naval Hospital arriving eleven minutes before the chopper from Quantico. Havelock raced across the tarmac to the staff car sent over from Annapolis, the driver an ensign reputed to know the roads on the Eastern Shore of Chesapeake Bay. The ensign knew nothing else; no one did; not even the doctor whose orders were to take care of Charles Loring first, and not to administer anything to Loring’s prisoner until Sterile Five was on the scene. Two state police patrol cars had been sent to the Pheasant Run Motel; they would be given their instructions by the Secret Service.
If the name Pheasant Run gave rise to images of squiredom and hunt country, it was misapplied to the sleazy motel’s run-down cabins that stood in a row off the highway. Apparently, the motel’s primary function was to serve as a place for assignations lasting an hour or so; cars were parked in small dirt lots at the rear, out of sight of the main road. The management catered to its clientele’s idiosyncrasies, if not to their comforts, and Loring had used his head. A man in pain, concealing wounds, without luggage but with a prisoner he wanted to rush surreptitiously into hiding, could hardly hope to register at a brightly lit Howard Johnson’s Motor Lodge.
Havelock thanked the ensign and told him to return to Annapolis, reminding him that the present emergency called for the utmost secrecy. Washington had his name, and his cooperation would not be overlooked. The young man, obviously impressed by the sight of searchlights and military helicopters at night, as well as by his own participation, replied in a monotone, “You may be assured of my silence, sir.”
“Just say you went out for a beer, that’s good enough. Better, maybe.”
A government man, holding up an encased silver badge in his palm, intercepted Michael as he ran along the row of cabins looking for number twelve.
“Sterile Five,” said Havelock, noticing for the first time the two state police cars parked in the shadows twenty feet apart to his left. Number twelve was nearby.
“This way,” said the man, pocketing his badge, and led Michael between two cabins toward the rear of the motel’s grounds. Beyond was a shorter row of cabins, which were not visible from the front. Loring had spent precious moments of pain and anxiety studying the motel’s layout—again an indication that he was in control.
In the distance, at the rear of the cabin on the left, the hood of a stationary automobile could be seen, but it was not an ordinary car. A streak of white ending in an arrowhead was stenciled over the black chassis at midpoint. It was the patrol car Loring had stolen, the only indication that perhaps he had lost a part of the control that had served them all so well. Someone in Washington would have to reach a panicked Maryland police headquarters and call off the hunt.
“This is it,” said the federal agent, pointing to the door of a cabin above a stoop of three steps. “I’ll be out here,” added the man. “Watch those steps; they’re loose.”
“Thanks,” said Havelock, and quickly but cautiously went up to the door. He tried the knob; it was locked. In answer to his knock, someone inside asked, “Who is it?”
“Sterile Five,” replied Michael.
The door was opened by a stocky, red-haired man in his middle thirties, his Celtic face freckled, his eyes wary, his sleeves rolled up. “Havelock?”
“That’s right.”
“Name’s Taylor. Come on in, we’ve got to talk fast.”
Michael walked inside the room with the soiled wallpaper; the doctor closed the door. On the bed was a naked man, spread-eagled, bloody hands and feet tied to the frame, belts around the wrists, torn sheets lashed to his ankles. His mouth was pulled taut by a striped blue tie to inhibit any loud sound, and his eyes were wide with anger and fear.
“Where’s …?”
Taylor gestured toward the far corner of the room. There on the floor, his head on a pillow and a blanket over him, was Charles Loring, his eyes only partially open; he was dazed or in shock. Havelock started across the filthy gray carpet but was stopped by the doctor’s grip on his arm.
“That’s what we have to talk about. I don’t know what’s going on here, but I do know I can’t be responsible for that man’s life unless we get him to a hospital an hour ago. Do I make myself clear?”
“As soon as we can, not right now,” said Michael, shaking his head. “I’ve got to question him. He’s the only person who can give me the information I need. Everyone else is dead.”
“Maybe you didn’t hear me. I said an hour ago.”
“I heard you, but I know what I have to do. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t like you,” said Taylor, staring at Havelock, removing his hand as if he had touched something loathsome.
“I wish that could concern me, Doctor, because I like him. I’ll be as brief and as quiet as I can. He’d want it this way, take my word for it.”
“I have to. I couldn’t convince him he should get out of here ten minutes ago.”
Michael walked over to Loring and knelt down, putting his face close to the wounded man’s. “Charley, it’s Havelock. Can you hear me?”
Loring opened his eyes wider, his lips trembling, struggling to form the words. Finally the whisper came. “Yes. Hear … you … fine.”
“I’ll tell you what I’ve learned, which is damned little. Nod your head if I’m on the track, shake it if I’m not. Don’t waste words or breath. Okay?” The Cons Op agent nodded and Michael continued, “I spoke with police who are trying to put it together. As they tell it, an ambulance brought in a traffic accident with his wife, and Randolph, a staff doctor and a nurse were cleaning him up, checking the extent of injuries.” Loring shook his head, but Havelock went on, “Let me finish, then we’ll go back. They weren’t in there five minutes when two state troopers came running in and spoke with our cardiologists. No one knows what was said, but they were admitted into the examining room.” Again the Cons Op agent shook his head. “A couple of minutes later a third man—I assume that was you—crashed through emergency doors, and that’s when everything went down.” Loring nodded.
Havelock took a breath and continued softly, rapidly. “The staff heard gunshots, perhaps five or six, no one’s sure. Most of them ran out of the building. The rest hid in the corridors and patients’ rooms behind locked doors, everyone trying to reach a phone. When the gunfire stopped, someone outside saw you and one of the state police come running down the ramp—you were bent over with a gun in your hand, the officer was bleeding, limping and holding his arm. You forced him into the patrol car and got out of there. The police are trying to find out who the other trooper was, but identifications were taken off some of the bodies, not all.” Loring shook his head violently. Michael touched his shoulder and said, “Take it easy; we’ll go back. I don’t have to tell you the body count was full. Randolph, the staff doctor, the nurse, the accident victim and his wife and our Apache unit Two automatic weapons equipped with silencers ware found; they’re still counting the shells. Yours was the gunfire that was heard; they’re tracing the weapons, matching prints. Beyond what I’ve told you, no one knows what happened. Now, let’s go back.” Havelock squinted, remembering. “The traffic accident.”
Loring shook his head, whispering, “No accident.”
“Why not?”
“They weren’t troopers.”
Michael looked up at the naked man strapped to the bed, and at the uniform rumpled on the floor. “Of course they weren’t. And the patrol car was a mock-up; they’ve got the money for that kind of thing. I should have known; you wouldn’t have taken it otherwise.”
The wounded agent nodded, his hand emerging from under the blanket, gesturing for Havelock to lean closer. “The man and the woman … from the ambulance … the accident. Any ID’s?”
“No.”
“Same with the troopers … right?”
“Right.”
“The accident,” whispered Loring, stopping for breath. “Too easy. Man hurt … a woman who won’t leave his side. They get in … to a room … doctor, nurse … Randolph. They got him.”
“How could they know Randolph would be there?”
“Doesn’t matter. They’d tell the doctor … or the nurse to call for him … under a gun. Probably did. They got him. Too easy.”
“And the troopers?”
“In a hurry … running like hell. They were sent to break it up, break it all up … in a hurry.”
“They left the doors open, ran funny … heavy weapons tinder their coats. The pattern wasn’t normal, wasn’t right.… Apache said the accident was a big-balled mafioso the cops came to question. If he was, there’d be ten vehicles there, not one.” Loring expelled his breath, coughing; blood trickled out of the corners of his mouth. He gasped, and resumed breathing. The doctor was now behind Havelock.
“For Christ’s sake,” said Taylor quietly but with angry intensity. “Why don’t you just put a bullet in his head?”
“Why don’t I put one in yours?” Michael leaned back toward Loring. “Why, Charley? Why do you think they were sent in to break it up?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe I was spotted … maybe I blew it again.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Don’t be so goddamn nice, I can’t stand it … I probably did blow it.… I’m getting old.”
“Then just pass on your instincts, Methuselah, we need them. You didn’t blow anything. You brought us one, you brought us one, Charley.”
Loring tried to raise his shoulders, Michael gently holding him down. “Tell me something, Havelock. You said this morning … about Shippers. ‘A long time ago.’ You said he was programmed a long time ago. Tell me. Is that son of a bitch over there a … a traveler?”
“I think he is.”
“Goddamn.… maybe I’m not so old.”
Michael got to his feet and turned to the doctor behind him. “All right, Taylor, he’s yours. Get him over to the field and have him taken to the best facilities at Bethesda. And you get on the phone and tell those mothers the White House wants the finest team of surgeons you’ve got ready and waiting for this man.”
“Yes, sir,” said the doctor sardonically. “Anything else, sir?”
“Oh, yes, physician. Prepare your bag of magic. You’re about to go to work.”
Loring was carried out on a stretcher by two paramedics who had been standing by; they were given firm instructions by the doctor as they took away the wounded Cons Op agent.
Taylor turned to Havelock. “Do we start now?”
“What about the wounds?” asked Michael, looking down at the naked man’s taped, blood-streaked right arm and left foot.
“Your friend put tourniquets where they were needed, and I added adhesive; the bleeding’s arrested. Also, he was damned accurate. Bone was shattered, but beyond the pain, nothing’ll drain him. Naturally, I gave him a couple of locals to ease him, keep his head clear.”
“Will they interfere with the chemicals?”
“I wouldn’t have administered them if they did.”
“Then shoot him up, Doctor. I can’t waste time.”
Taylor went to his large black leather case, which was open and on a table next to the window under the glow of a lamp. He studied the contents for several moments, took out three vials and three cased syringes, and placed them on the edge of the bed next to the naked man’s thigh. The prisoner raised his head, his features contorted, his eyes glazed, frenzied; he was close to hysterics. Suddenly he began to writhe furiously, and muffled animal-like howls came from his throat. He stopped, overwhelmed by the pain in his right arm, and gasping for breath, he stared at the ceiling. Then abruptly he stopped breathing, holding the air in his lungs, his face becoming redder by the second, eyes now bulging.
“What the hell is he—?”
“Get out of my way!” shouted Havelock, pushing the doctor aside and crashing his clenched fist down on the killer’s bare stomach. The breath exploded out of the traveler’s bound mouth, and the eyes and flesh tone began returning to normal.
“Jesus,” said Taylor, rushing forward to steady the vials, which were about to roll off the edge of the bed. “What was that?”
“You’re dealing with something you may never have dealt with before, Doctor. They’re programmed like robots, killing whomever they’re told to kill—without any feeling at all, without the slightest concern. Not even for themselves.”
“Then he won’t negotiate. I thought maybe if he saw these things, he might.”
“No way. He’d stall us, throw us off with every plausible lie in the books, and they know them all. They’re masters of the craft. Let’s go, Doctor.”
“How do you want to progress? In stages, which will bring him back one step at a time, or do you want to chance a maximum? It’s the fastest, but there’s a risk.”
“What’s the worst with it?”
“Incoherence. Disjointed rambling, no logical pattern.”
“No logical …? That’s it. I’ll chance the incoherence; just get him away from any patterns that might trigger programmed responses.”
“It doesn’t work quite that way. The flow becomes formless; dissociation is the first reaction. The key is to hit certain words—”
“You’re saying everything I want to hear, Doctor, and you’re also wasting time.”
“You think so?” With the swiftness of a surgeon stemming a sudden internal eruption, Taylor broke off a vial’s tiny glass casing, inserted the syringe, withdrew it, and plunged it into the traveler’s thigh before the bound man knew it was happening. The killer writhed violently, yanking at the belts and the torn sheets in an effort to break them, rolling from side to side as muffled cries filled the room. “The more he does that, the quicker it’ll take effect,” added Taylor, pressing his hand on the side of the stretched, whipping neck. “Only a minute or so.”
Michael watched, fascinated and revolted, as he always was when observing the effect of these chemicals on a human being. He had to remind himself that this killer had brutally taken the lives of men and women less than three hours ago—his own people and others, the guilty and the totally innocent How many would mourn for them and never understand? And how many were laid at the feet of one Michael Havelock, courtesy of Anton Matthias? Two career officers, a young staff doctor, a younger nurse, a man named Randolph, whose only crime was to try to right a terrible wrong.
Futility.
“He’s about ready now,” said Taylor, studying the filmy, partially closed eyes of the prisoner, whose movements had contracted into slow, weaving motions, accompanied by moans.
“You must be happy in your work, Doctor.”
“I was always a nosy kid,” answered the red-haired man, gently removing the striped tie from the traveler’s mouth. “Besides, someone’s got to do it, and Big Uncle paid for my medical degree. My old man couldn’t swing a bucket of suds in Paddy O’Rourke’s saloon. I’ll pay my debt and get out.”
Havelock could not think of a reply any less tasteless than his comment, so he leaned over the bed as Taylor backed away. “May I begin?” he asked.
“Talk, he’s your crossword puzzle.”
“Orders,” began Michael, his hand on the headboard, his lips near the traveler’s ear, his voice firm, steady, low. “Orders, orders, orders. None of us can move without our orders! But we have to be certain, we can’t make a mistake. Who can dear our orders, clear our orders now?”
The prisoner’s head moved back and forth, his mouth alternately opening and closing, stretching the bruised flesh. But no sound came.
“It’s an emergency,” continued Havelock. “Everybody knows it’s an emergency … an emergency. We’ve got to hurry, hurry … hurry up.”
“Hurry … hurry up.” The whisper emerged, tentative, uncertain.
“But how can we be sure?” Michael raced on. “We have to be certain.”
“The flight … the flight was smooth. We heard it twice. That’s all we have to know. The flight … smooth.”
“Of course. A smooth flight. We’re all right now. We can hurry.… Now, let’s float back … before the emergency. Relax. Sleep.”
“Very good,” said the doctor from across the dimly lit, squalid room. “You centered him as quickly as I’ve ever seen it done. That was a response.”
“It wasn’t difficult,” replied Havelock, rising from the bed and studying the traveler. “Since he was given his orders he’s had three things on his mind. Emergency, speed and clearance. His instructions were to kill—an extreme order, also a dangerous one—so clearance was vital. You heard him, he had to hear it twice.”
“The code was a ‘smooth flight.’ He gave it to you, and now you’ll give it back to him. You’re closer.”
“And you’re no amateur, Doctor. Get me a chair, will you? I’ve also got speed and emergency on my mind. Things may get rough.” Taylor brought a straight-backed chair over to the bed; Michael sat down; the chair was unsteady but serviceable. He leaned forward, arms on the edge of the bed, and spoke again to the bound man. “We have a smooth flight … a smooth flight … a very smooth flight! Now, kill your partner!”
The traveler whipped his head to the right, his clouded eyes blinking, lips moving—protest without sound.
“You heard me!” shouted Havelock. “We have a smooth flight, so kill him!”
“What …? Why?” The whispered words were guttural.
“Are you married? Tell me, since we’re on a smooth flight, are you married?”
“Yes … yes, married.”
“Kill your wife?”
“Why?”
“We’re on a smooth flight! How can you refuse?”
“Why … why?”
“Kill your partner! Kill your wife! Do you have children?”
“No!” The traveler’s eyes widened, the glaze within on fire. “You could never ask … never!”
“I do! A smooth flight! What more do you need?”
“Clearance. I demand clearance! I … must have it!”
“From where? From whom? I’ve already told you. We’re on a smooth flight! That’s it!”
“Please … ! Me, kill me. I’m … confused!”
“Why are you confused? You heard my orders, just as you heard the orders for today. Did I give you those orders?”
“No.”
“No? You don’t remember? If not me, who?”
“The trip … the smooth flight. The … control.”
“The control?”
“The source.”
“The source control! Your source control. I am your source control! Kill your partner! Kill your wife! Kill the children! All the children!”
“I … I. You can’t ask me … please don’t ask me.”
“I don’t ask. I demand, I give orders! Do you want to sleep?”
“Yes.”
“You can’t sleep!” Michael turned his head and spoke to Taylor, his voice soft, barely audible. “How long will the dose last?”
“The way you’re eating it up, half the normal time. Another ten minutes, tops.”
“Prepare another. I’m taking him up.”
“It’ll blow him into space.”
“He’ll come down.”
“You’re the doctor,” said the doctor.
“I am your source control!” shouted Havelock, getting out of the chair, leaning over the traveler’s face. “You have no one else, paminyatchik! You will do as I tell you, and only what I tell you! Now, your partner, your wife, the children …”
“Ahhh …!” The scream was prolonged, a cry beyond helplessness.
“I’ve only begun …”
The bound, narcotized killer strained against the leather and the cloth, body and features twisted, his mind in a labyrinth of terror, with sacrifice demanded upon sacrifice, pain upon pain, no way out of the impossible maze.
“Now,” said Havelock to the doctor beside him.
Taylor plunged the hypodermic needle into the traveler’s arm; the reaction was there in moments, drug accelerating drug. The screams turned into animal screeches, saliva flowing from the killer’s mouth—violence the only answer to violence.
“Give it to me!” yelled Michael. “Prove it to me! Or be killed with everyone else! Partner, wife, children … you all die unless you can prove yourself to me. Right now, this moment! … What is the code for your source control?”
“Hammer-zero-two! You know it!”
“Yes, I know it. Now tell me, where can I be reached—don’t lie!”
“Don’t know … don’t know! I’m called … we’re all called.”
“When you want clearance! When you have information to deliver. How do you reach me when you want clearance, when you have information that has to be relayed.”
“Tell them … need it. We all do. Everyone.”
“Who?”
“Orphan. Reach … Orphan.”
“Orphan?”
“Orphan-ninety-six? Where is he? Where?”
“O … r … p … h …” The final scream was shattering. The traveler thrashed his full strength and weight against the belts and broke one, which freed his left arm, as he lunged up, then arched his back in a spasm and fell unconscious over the far side of the bed.
“He’s had it,” said Taylor, reaching across Havelock and holding the prisoner’s wrist in his fingers. “His pulse is a jackhammer; it’ll be eight hours before he can sustain another jolt. Sorry—Doctor.”
“It’s all right, Doctor,” said Michael, walking away from the bed and reaching into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. “We could have done worse. You’re a hell of a good chemist.”
“I don’t consider it my life’s work.”
“If it weren’t right now, you might not have—” Havelock stopped to light a cigarette.
“What?”
“Nothing. I meant you might not have time for a drink, but I do.”
“Sure, I do. I’ll get Boris here down to a clinic.”
“Boris?… You know?”
“Enough to know he’s not a Boy Scout.”
“That’s the funny thing. He probably was.”
“Tell me,” asked the red-haired doctor, “would a source control order him to do that? Kill his wife and kids, people that close to him?”
“Never. Moscow wouldn’t risk it. These people are like robots, but it’s blood inside, not oil. They’re monitored continuously, and if the KGB wants them taken out, an execution squad is sent in to do it. A normal family is part of the cover; if’s also a powerful secondary hook. If a man’s ever tempted, he knows what will happen.”
“You used it the same way, didn’t you? Only in reverse.”
“I’m not wildly proud of the accomplishment, but yes.”
“Jesus, Mary and Paddy O’Rourke,” muttered the doctor.
Michael watched as Taylor reached for the bedside phone to issue his instructions through Bethesda Central. The telephone. Orphan-96. “Wait a minute!” Michael cried suddenly.
“What’s the matter?”
“Let me use that phone!” Havelock rushed to the table, picked up the telephone and dialed, saying aloud as he did so, “O-r-p-h-a-n … nine-six.”
“Operator,” said the female voice on the line.
“What?”
“Is this a collect call, billed to a credit card, or to another number?”
“Credit card,” Michael stared at the wall to remember his untraceable, State-assigned number. He gave it to the operator and heard the subsequent ringing.
“Good evening and thank you for calling the Voyagers Emporium, luggage for the sophisticated globe-trotter. If you’ll state the numbered item or items from our catalog you wish to purchase, you will be connected to the proper representative in our twenty-four-hour service department.”
Havelock replaced the phone. He needed another code; it would be found in a clinic. It had to be found.… We all do. Everyone … Ambiguity was at the end of that code.
“Anything?” asked the bewildered Taylor.
“That’ll be up to you, Doctor. Ever heard of the Voyagers Emporium? I don’t know it, but then, for years I’ve bought most of my stuff in Europe.”
“The Voyagers? Sure, they’ve got branches all over the place. They’re the Tiffany of the luggage business. My wife bought one of those carry-on bags, and I swear to God when I got the bill I thought she’d picked up a car. They’re first—class.”
“They’re also a KGB proprietary. That’s what you’re going to work on. Whatever your schedule is, scratch it. I want you down at the clinic with our globe-trotter here. We need another series of numbers. Just one more set.”
There was a sound of heavy footsteps outside the cabin, followed by a harsh rapping on the door.
“What is it?” asked Havelock, loud enough to be heard outside.
“Sterile Five, you’re wanted. Urgent call over the state police radio. You’re to be taken to the airfield pronto.”
“On my way.” Havelock turned to Taylor. “Make your arrangements. Stay with it—with him. I’ll be in touch. Sorry about the drink.”
“So’s Paddy O’Rourke.”
“Who the hell is Paddy O’Rourke?”
“A little man who sits on my shoulder and tells me not to think too much.”
Michael climbed into the marine helicopter as the giant overhead blades thundered and the pilot beckoned him forward to the flight deck.
“There’s a patch phone back there!” shouted the pilot. “It’ll be quieter when the hatch is closed. Well put your call through.”
“Who is it?”
“We’ll never know!” yelled the radioman, turning from his console against the bulkhead. “Our link is filtered. We’re by passed.”
The heavy metal door was electronically swung into place, shutting out the spill of the airfield’s searchlights and reducing the thunder of the rotors to a muffled roar. Havelock crouched in the flashing darkness and gripped the phone, holding it to his right ear, his free hand covering the other. The voice that came last on the line was that of the President of the United States.
“You’re being flown directly to Andrews Air Force Base to meet with Arthur Pierce.”
“What’s happened, sir?”
“He’s on his way to Poole’s Island with the vault specialist, but wants to talk with you first. He’s a frightened man, and I don’t think he frightens easily.”
“The Soviets?”
“Yes. He can’t tell whether they bought his story or not. They listened to him in silence, nodded and showed him the door. He has an idea that during the past eighteen hours they’ve learned something major, something they won’t talk about—something that could blow everything apart. He warned them not to make any precipitous moves without communication at the highest levels.”
“What was their response?”
“Deadly. ‘Look to yourselves,’ they said.”
“They’ve got something. Pierce knows his enemy.”
“In the last extremity, we’ll be forced to parade Matthias—hoping to deter a launch, no guarantee that it will. I don’t have to tell you what it will mean—we’ll be a government of lepers, never trusted again. If we’re on the map.”
“What can I do? What does Pierce want?”
“All you’ve got, everything you’ve learned. He’s trying to find something, anything, he can use as a lever. Every hour he can present a countercharge and prevent escalation, every day he can buy us, is a day for you. You are making progress?”
“Yes. We know the Ambiguity connection now, where he sends and receives. By midmorning we should learn just how he does it, through whom. When we do we’ll find him.”
“Then you could be a step away from Parsifal.”
“I think so.”
“I don’t want to hear that! I want to hear ‘yes.’ ”
“yes, Mr. President.” Havelock paused, thinking about the few, brief words they needed to break the Voyagers code. They would be heard and recorded in a clinic. “I believe it.”
“You wouldn’t say it otherwise, thank God. Get down to Pierce. Give him everything you’ve got. Help him!”