by P. J. Tracy
“Gino and I will take care of it. Where are Grace and Lydia?”
“Upstairs. They’re going to stay put until we figure out what this is all about. Listen, guys, I don’t have time for details, but we just got off the phone with Annie and Roadrunner. They’re back from raiding Donald Buchanan’s crypt. Gino, I think we’ve got you beat in the crazy-train, outlandish-theory division.”
Gino puffed up indignantly. “My outlandish theories are almost always right. Partially.”
“Let’s hope ours isn’t, but Arthur Friedman is probably the only guy on the face of the earth that can fill in some blanks.”
FIFTY-FOUR
Max was sitting in the back of a utility service vehicle. There were appropriate tools in the van, but none he would use, other than a safe filled with ample stacks of cash and passports from all over the globe and the usual array of electronics. Unfortunately, the electronics were useless here—he knew all about Monkeewrench, their skills and talents, and it would be impossible to breach any communications. It would also be impossible to access and kidnap Lydia Ascher, which was his most recent directive. His job here was going to be old-school: Wait. Watch. Terminate his mission if things got too hot, or wait for somebody to terminate the mission for him.
It had initially surprised him that Monkeewrench was harboring Lydia Ascher, but the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. They worked with the cops all the time, Detectives Magozzi and Rolseth in particular, who had drawn the unfortunate card of several homicides that apparently had roots too deep for any one person to possibly divine. And there was really no place safer than the corporate headquarters of a group of paranoid computer geniuses. He knew a lot of people just like them—some were white hats, some were black, but all of them were nuts. In fact, he knew of one in central Africa who had a crocodile-filled moat around his compound.
Max was pleased with his quickly accumulating bankroll, but also increasingly disheartened. His jobs had always been simple, well-paid tasks, but this particular job was quickly outgrowing his level of skill and compensation. Protect or kill, those were orders he could understand. But then they’d switched the game on him and he was now being ordered to kidnap and interrogate his charges about something called the Sixth Idea.
He thought about Alvin Keller, a helpless, sick old man who’d most likely died from sheer terror right in front of his eyes. And then there was Lydia Ascher, an innocent young woman. If he managed to get her into his custody, what would happen to her if she was turned over to someone like Ivan for further interrogation?
With this new shift in the focus of the mission and the increasingly distasteful tenor of events, he found himself thinking more and more about Montana, about retirement, about finally disappearing from the face of the earth. Whatever this Sixth Idea was, he didn’t want anything to do with it.
The problem was, without a very compelling reason to terminate this mission, he was stuck here, because the people who hired him demanded results. And if results weren’t delivered, he would be the one getting terminated permanently.
He checked his watch, then started up the van. He knew he would be under very sophisticated scrutiny from inside the house, and an idle service vehicle sitting around on a curb for too long without workers performing a task wouldn’t escape that scrutiny.
But as he was about to pull away from the curb, he saw a lone figure walking slowly up the sidewalk, approaching the mansion’s locked front gate. He was a tall, thin man in an oversized coat and his gait was unsteady and weary. The man stopped at the security box at Harley Davidson’s gate and pushed a button.
Max took his binoculars from the case and focused on the man, whose face was lit up by the lights that flooded the yard and the sidewalk beyond. There was no question—this man knew exactly where he was going and what he was doing.
And Max knew exactly who he was. He dropped the binoculars on his lap and shook his head in disbelief. This was probably no laughing matter, but he couldn’t stop smiling. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch! he thought to himself. Arthur Friedman had fooled them all.
FIFTY-FIVE
Magozzi was standing in the shelter of Harley’s front porch, watching the old man walk up to the mansion through falling snow. He had momentarily toyed with the ridiculous notion that Friedman was really an assassin with a perfect cover, sent here to kill Lydia. But that healthy-cop paranoia fizzled when he locked eyes with him. Arthur Friedman was a terrified and desperate ninety-two-year-old man, and he didn’t look so good. His face was pale and gaunt and dark crescents rimmed his eyes. His overcoat was far too large for his frame, and his gait was cautious and shuffling.
Jesus Christ, are you going to let this guy fall and break a hip on the sidewalk, Magozzi?
He jumped down off the front steps and offered his hand. “Please, sir, allow me.”
“Thank you very much, Detective Magozzi. My name is Arthur Friedman and I need your help. The same people who committed the homicides you are investigating will kill me if they find me.”
A million questions were racing through Magozzi’s mind, but this was definitely not the place to ask them. “We know, Dr. Friedman. You’re number one on the list of people who might know anything about the Sixth Idea. We need to get you inside immediately.”
Dr. Friedman had wild, white eyebrows that lifted slightly. “You know about the Sixth Idea?”
“We know it’s getting people killed. Come in, Doctor.” Magozzi gently took Friedman by the elbow and led him inside. His arm was frail and bony beneath the sleeve of his jacket, and he was shivering. “Obviously you don’t have Alzheimer’s.”
“Thank you for noticing. In truth, I was hiding at Meadowbrook, but no place is safe forever.” He stopped abruptly once inside the big double doors. The grandiosity of the mansion had stopped many visitors in their tracks, but there were also three people standing shoulder to shoulder, waiting for them, and they were all armed.
“Dr. Friedman, this is my partner, Gino Rolseth, and Grace MacBride and Harley Davidson.”
“Ah. Monkeewrench. I need your help most of all, which is why I’m here. I’m afraid something horrible is going to happen and you might be the only people who can stop it.” He paused and wrung his hands. “But I’m not sure where to begin, because everything I have to say will convince you I’m a demented, delusional old man, and I don’t think we have time for a psychiatric evaluation to prove otherwise.”
Grace’s eyes sparked and fixed intently on Friedman’s. “Are you referencing the Sixth Idea, Doctor?”
Friedman nodded. “How much do you know?”
“We know that Donald Buchanan had a visionary theory, foreseeing a future where computers were commonplace, producing small amounts of electromagnetic pulse that might somehow be harnessed into a weapon if all the computers could be tied together.”
Friedman staggered a little against Magozzi’s arm. “My God, how could you possibly know that?”
“We have copies of some of his documents,” Harley explained. “In them is a crude schematic of ARPANET.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “The Sixth Idea was indeed a theory back then. But I believe it exists now, and I’m afraid an attack might be imminent. . . . Is there someplace I might sit down?”
Grace looked at Magozzi. “Take Dr. Friedman to the den while Harley and I get Donald Buchanan’s papers.”
Lydia was fully alert and sitting up in a chair when Grace entered the bedroom next to the office. Charlie was at her feet, pretending to be a guard dog. She looked composed, but her little gun was in her lap.
“False alarm?” she asked hopefully.
“In a way. One of your grandfather’s colleagues is downstairs. A man named Arthur Friedman.”
Lydia’s eyes widened. “Why is he here?”
“He said he’s here for help, but we haven’t had a chance to talk to him yet, so stay
upstairs until Harley or I come for you.”
“Does he know something?”
“I think he knows a lot, otherwise he wouldn’t have found us, but I don’t think he knows you’re here, so let’s keep it that way for the time being.”
“I’d like to speak with him. Unless he’s here to kill me.”
Grace cocked a brow at her. “He doesn’t seem like the homicidal type. But let us make sure, then you can talk to him all you want. You have every right to hear what he has to say.”
“Once you establish that he’s not here to kill me.”
“Exactly.”
FIFTY-SIX
Magozzi was relieved to see Arthur Friedman slowly regaining color and strength as he huddled by the fire in the den, sipping from a hot mug of cocoa. Grace was sitting next to him, wisps of her dark hair backlit by the flames, creating a strange amber halo around her head. Her posture was tense and she was looking at Friedman like an entomologist might regard a newly discovered species of insect, but she was showing admirable restraint as she kept her questions mute.
“Thank you for this, Ms. MacBride. Now, where were we?”
“You said you thought an attack was imminent. What makes you think so?”
“Oh, yes, of course. First of all, I think there have been small-scale test runs of the Sixth Idea.”
“The blackouts?”
Friedman nodded. “Yes. And because after years of inactivity, they’re suddenly murdering anybody who might know anything about it. Trust me, if the Sixth Idea is a reality now, it’s worth killing over to protect it and conceal it from the enemy. Or enemies, which seem to be proliferating at an alarming rate.”
Gino’s frown was deep. “With all due respect, Doctor, who the hell is they?”
“My former employers. Our government, or at least an esoteric, dark little branch of it.”
“But all the blackouts were in the U.S. Why would the government black out its own cities?”
“I would assume that at first they wanted to observe the testing closely, to make certain it worked as planned before launching it on an enemy. That’s likely why the domestic blackouts were so short-lived and did little harm.
“But there were other attacks that our own media didn’t find worthy of coverage. All but one province of Turkey lost power for ten hours last week. Minsk in Russia lost power for two days the week before, but none of this raises alarm bells. Power outages occur all the time, all over the world, for varying reasons. But what if these were all intentional? What if they never ended? And a larger attack—well, that would completely destroy anything electronic and the power grid could be crippled for months, if not longer. You could take down any regime in that time. Electronics rule the world now, and those who still have them could rule the world as well.”
Gino grunted. “So our government is blacking out our cities and murdering innocent people so it can rule the world. Great.”
“Not so that it can rule the world, necessarily, but prevent others from attempting to.” Friedman let out a weary sigh. “There are only two of us left—myself and a young woman, Donald Buchanan’s granddaughter. I haven’t been able to reach her, though.”
“Lydia Ascher,” Magozzi said. “She’s safe, Dr. Friedman. She was the one who led us to her grandfather’s paperwork.”
Gino’s face screwed up in distaste. “Our government, huh? I pegged the Russians for this.”
“That was a valid assumption, Detective Rolseth, except the Russians don’t have the Sixth Idea, although they want it badly.” Friedman gave him a dark smile. “Ironic, isn’t it? Our government is killing its own citizens and the Russians, of all people, are trying to save us. Detectives, I must ask about Alvin Keller. Has he been found?”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Friedman. He was found this morning. We believe his passing was from natural causes.”
Friedman closed his eyes and shook his head. “The Russians kidnapped him for information about the Sixth Idea, and also to save him from the American assassins. His dreadful disease may have saved him from something worse.”
“How do you know all this?” Gino asked incredulously.
“Two Russians have been watching over me at Meadowbrook. A nurse named Vera and her friend Max. They speak Russian to each other, trusting that no Alzheimer’s patient would understand, but I happen to be fluent.”
Harley entered the room quietly and laid a sheaf of papers on the hearth. “These are the notes we have, Doctor.”
Friedman’s hands started to shake. “My God,” he whispered. “This is a copy of Donald’s original notes, in his handwriting. I thought these had all been destroyed or stolen years ago. Where did you find them?”
Magozzi shrugged uncomfortably, wondering if there was a good way to present this, or if he even should. But everything was pretty much on the table now, and there was no point in holding back. “Donald left a message for his daughter that Lydia discovered. The papers were in his crypt.”
Friedman’s eyes suddenly clouded, with tears or memories, or both, but then he smiled, showing a flash of age-yellowed teeth. “Donald was a colleague, but he was also my best friend. And he told me time and time again that he would take the Sixth Idea to his grave. I had no idea he was being so literal.”
Grace refilled his mug from a carafe that was warming on the hearth. “Dr. Friedman, tell us about the Sixth Idea. Tell us what we can do to help.”
FIFTY-SEVEN
The Sixth Idea was Donald’s baby, and something we all worked on for a short time before the project was ultimately scrapped. Or so we thought. As you have already surmised, his theory was to devise a globally interconnected network of millions of miniature EMP devices that could be selectively and remotely detonated. You could launch a surgical strike on a single building, a city, a country, a continent without the expense and massive devastation of a multimegaton nuclear bomb.
“The idea was that it would spare the people and cripple the technology that allowed corrupt tyrants and governments to rule and subjugate them. If we could disable the missiles and tanks, the transportation and communication of only the governments, the people would rise up to fill the vacuum with freedom and democracy.
“Like all brokers of chaos, we were deluded into thinking world peace was actually an achievable outcome, if only we had the proper weapon. Of course, at the time, such a weapon was wildly theoretical. How could you plant millions of devices in hostile territories?”
“Enter the computer age.”
“Exactly, Ms. MacBride. Computers got smaller, the home computer was developed, and soon after that, everyone had to have one. The U.S. government, in a fit of false philanthropy, decided to give computers away to people who couldn’t afford them—all over the world.”
Grace glanced at Harley. “And if you implanted a doomsday chip in all of those computers, what you were really giving away were the components of a weapon that one day could be launched through the Internet.”
Gino folded his arms across his chest and leveled a harsh gaze at Harley. “So this is your crazy-train theory you were trying to tell us about?”
“Pretty much.”
“Well, I’m impressed.” Gino looked around the room. “Listen, I’m no expert on international policy, but if you could depose bad guys without massive human casualties, why would you want to stop it?”
Harley said, “Because, Gino, once the Sixth Idea is out of the bag, it won’t be long before everybody learns how to duplicate it. So you want to knock out Iran’s nuclear program? Fantastic, I’m all for it, except then China or Russia or North Korea or somebody is going to get seriously pissed off and take out our whole power grid and everything that runs on it. And if you bring the U.S. to its knees, the rest of the world follows.”
“Don’t forget the Islamist radicals,” Magozzi added. “They’ve been trying to destroy Western civilization forever.
If those crazy bastards got their hands on the Sixth Idea, they wouldn’t have any moral qualms about using it to send the world back to the Stone Age and level the playing field.”
Friedman brightened and looked at Magozzi as if he were a promising young pupil. “You just made the most important point, Detective Magozzi. Donald’s theory was conceived during a different time, when mutually assured destruction protected the world from annihilation. If you are a civilized nation, you obviously don’t want to destroy the world. The Cold War was bellicose and frightening, but in truth neither the U.S. nor the Soviet Union was ever going to start nuclear Armageddon—it was a stalemate from the very beginning. But those days are over. The terrorists changed everything—they don’t care if they destroy themselves or the rest of the world, and the Sixth Idea is a perfect way to do it. Which is why we have to stop this.” He sighed and looked down into his mug of cocoa. “As it turns out, medieval barbarism is perhaps the greatest weapon of mass destruction.”
Gino was fidgeting now, rubbing his thumbs together like he wanted to start a fire. “Okay, that all makes sense, so can somebody tell me why our government would be stupid enough to take that risk and open Pandora’s box?”
Friedman shook his head ruefully. “We’ve done it before. Surely you’ve been alive long enough, Detective Rolseth, to realize that with great power comes great arrogance and a complete and utter lack of foresight. We unleashed two nuclear bombs to stop a war, and now that technology is not only available to anyone with the means to develop it, but already possessed by many nations—many unsavory nations who would like to destroy us. Donald understood that and it’s what got him killed.”
Everyone’s mouths formed silent O’s; Grace was the first to find her voice. “We thought he died in a plane crash.”
“He did, but that plane crash was no accident, and a couple dozen innocent souls died along with him. Donald was a fervent believer in mutually assured destruction in our time, when it was an effective deterrent, and he didn’t think any one power should be in sole possession of something like the Sixth Idea if it were to become a reality. He threatened our handlers that he would go public if the project wasn’t either exposed or scrapped. His plane exploded fifty feet off the tarmac two days later. Regrettably, the rest of us spent our lives looking over our shoulders, keeping our mouths shut.”
