The Eighth Day

by Tom Avitabile

  “Generals always lose the start of the next war because they fight it like the last war. After a few licks, they’ll catch on.” Harris wiped down the shotgun and placed it on the table.

  “Something tells me the clock may run out before we get off the last shot.”

  “Well, I think I know what you’re looking for, but it’s going to cost you.”

  Hiccock surveyed the vast accumulated wealth of Harris’s surroundings. A quarter of a mile behind him, knights in armor, forever mounted on stuffed horses, stood on motionless display behind the twenty-foot glass windows of Harris’s armaments room. A Sherman tank was propped up like a statue with a landscaped circular garden surrounding it amidst original Remington sculptures with a few Robert

  E. Lee pieces thrown in for good measure. It was Harris’s private homage to man’s largest and longest-running endeavor: war.

  “Forgive me, but what else could you possibly need or want?”

  “The U.S.S. Iowa.”

  “The what now?”

  “I want one magazine battery, three cycles, nine rounds,” Harris said matter-of-factly as he reset his earmuffs and heaved a shotgun into the ready position. “Pull!” he called to his houseboy, butler, or whoever was launching the clay pigeons, fifty yards downrange from them. The clay pigeon disappeared in a smear of powder. “I get to squeeze ’em off.”

  “Let me get this straight, Mr. Harris. You want the United States battleship Iowa for target practice?”

  “Each shell weighs 2,700 pounds, is 16 inches around, and can hit a target 20 miles away. Ever hear one of those babies go off as it belches out flame and smoke? What a sight! What a sound!” He gently wiped down his prize shotgun. He picked up a smaller weapon.

  “How about a million dollars, a plane, and enough fuel to make it to a sympathetic country?”

  “Okay, one cruise missile?”

  “I can’t believe I flew down here to negotiate weapons of mass destruction with you!”

  “That’s what you need to afford the best-selling author who has everything.”

  “Deal. I hope.”

  “Trance-inducing visual graphics,” Harris said plainly.

  Hiccock smiled. “That’s certainly outside the box. You mean brainwashing by computer?”

  “If it was my novel and I was writing it, I would have the bad guys lulling regular people in with hypnotic graphics, the kind only a computer can make. Clicking the mouse would make the graphics swirl and perform. When their mouse click responses start to lag or match a predetermined rhythm, then I’d know they were going under and ready to accept input. All that would be left to do is implant the commands. Maybe by telephone.”

  “That is brilliant. I’ll order a check of the phone company logs.”

  “Yeah, maybe I shouldn’t have told you. It would have made a great book. Well, it’s yours now. Time to feed more fish.”

  “Feed more fish?”

  Harris picked up one of the target pigeons. “I have them specially made from freeze-dried compressed fish food. Mixed with a little egg, they harden like clay. The minute they hit the water they rehydrate into fish food.” He brandished an Uzi submachine gun. “Watch this.” He smiled at Hiccock. “Pull!” he barked. With the sound of a zipper, the gun spit out thirty rounds per second. The plate was not exactly shattered as much as separated in midair, continuing in the rough shape of a plate until gravity pulled the falling pieces apart. “Neat huh?” he asked with the excitement of a schoolboy.

  ∞§∞

  “Last night they burned the midnight oil as they have for so many nights since the terrible rash of terrorist attacks besieged the country. Still in the apparent center of the government’s efforts to find out who the perpetrators of these horrific events are, stands the president’s science advisor, William Hiccock. Normally the science advisor to the president is a backroom political appointee who the public hardly, if ever, sees. In my exclusive report tonight, we’ll explore how the government is using newer, more scientific, techniques to catch a bad guy and how a former college quarterback sensation turned science advisor is calling the plays…”

  Watching in his “eyes and ears” center, a bleary eyed Falad made note of this new face, this Carly Simone reporting. She was sharing intelligence on the “Hiccock” he had heard of when he accused certain Moslem countries of pre-emptive strikes against American corporations trading with the Israelis. He wrote up the content of her report, and noted she was new to the network. He made a note to do a Nexus-Lexus search on her to see where she came from and if she knew of what she spoke.

  ∞§∞

  “We have traced back through the worms we found on Grandma’s hard drive,” Hansen explained as he set up more tests in the FBI’s ECL. “We’ll sign on to the same sites she did.”

  “What’s a worm?” Tyler asked.

  “Originally it was a mole that hackers planted in your computer to track and retrieve what you’re doing on the web.”

  “Like my E-bay, bank accounts, and dirty e-mails.”

  Hiccock raised his right eyebrow, “You?”

  “Didn’t know I banked online, did you?” she said, winking.

  “Now legitimate web sites use a form of them to implant redundant information, images, and personal preferences to make their pages load faster.”

  “Oh, like a cookie?” Hiccock asked.

  “Only not as passive.”

  “So we got a record of everywhere she went on the web?” Hiccock said, trying to follow along.

  “Parents love it because they know what sites Junior’s been visiting,” the Electronics Crime Lab tech replied as he pulled up site after site.

  Tyler leaned into Hiccock. “Remind me to clean my hard drive when I get home.”

  The tech navigated through MyGarden.com. The site recognized Martha and displayed the greeting, “Hello, Martha, haven’t seen you for two weeks. How are the petunias?” It waited for a response.

  “So the web site doesn’t really know about her flowers or how long she’s been away?” Tyler said.

  “Correct! The web site is reading the worm, the cookie as you say, in her machine. Otherwise the site would require enough memory to remember all of this for every person who logged on.”

  “So it’s like a distributed form of intelligence?” Hiccock had some notion of this structure.

  “Yes, data are spread throughout the Internet in every user’s machine.”

  “Are you finding anything unusual?”

  “We’ve run routines all day. It all looks normal. No hypnotic or trance-inducing graphics of any kind have come up. Of course we’ll go through all the content again with a fine-tooth comb.” Hansen didn’t sound in the least bit optimistic.

  Hiccock felt a wave of defeat wash over him. “You know, a cruise missile just doesn’t buy what it used to.”

  ∞§∞

  Habibe Al Rassam Assad hated shaving. It was one of so many new skills he had to learn. He and his team members had to pray in private, plan in private, and speak Arabic only when they were in the deep room. That was the name of the room in the house consisting of all interior walls, void of windows and any kind of electronic equipment. He had been training for this for three years. When he was recruited he was told that his mission was to carry out the great will of Allah, that he would be a hero, a man whose name would be taught in Madrassas from Teheran to Indonesia. He and the team were ready and released for action. All they needed now was one critical piece of intelligence.

  In the corner of the kitchen there was one cell phone. Constantly plugged in, it had a number known only to General Nandessera. It was intended to be used only once. Now that they were released, one of the team members had to remain in the house next to the phone at all times, periodically checking it to make sure the signal strength bars were showing strong. The long awaited message would be in code. The key to the code was based on the Arabic translation of the American book, Chesapeake. The code would be in numbers and written down by
hand. Every other number was a page number. The one in between was the ordinal number of a word on that page. A zero anywhere in the code indicated that the previous word’s first letter only was to be used. Any American reference or non-Arabic translatable words could be spelled out by using only the first letters of words ear marked with a zero. It was an old key code style. But only two people knew the book chosen, he and the General. The General himself would code the message and hand place a call to a trusted aide half a world away. That aide would then dial up the cell phone number of the safe house and repeat the series of numbers twice. By using this form of layers or cutouts, there was no chance of any electronic trace or pattern, which could be established by the American NSA; the National Security Agency having the task of listening in on the millions of electronic signals generated every minute throughout the world.

  ∞§∞

  Asaad checked the “package.” It was not really necessary, but he was trained to be a professional and leave nothing to chance. He performed the checkout for the hundredth time and found all the elements in their proper and ready state. He proceeded into the deep room to join his clean-shaven team for afternoon prayers.

  ∞§∞

  Joey Palumbo was reviewing the stuff in his overnight in-box between sips of herbal tea instead of the usual morning coffee that was killing his stomach lately. He hoped to delay the ulcer he was working hard to have just one day farther into the future. Having been added to the very tightly controlled distribution list on all “Homegrown” traffic, he was more than interested in the report he held in his hand. It seemed the Madison PD received an anonymous e-mail from someone who knew Martha Krummel’s computer was now in the hands of the authorities. That in and of itself was unsettling. The e-mail reffered to a Sabot Society but fell short of taking credit for the recent wave of events. The most interesting part of the message, which prickled his cop’s nerve endings, indicated that this would not be the last: “Furthermore, for purposes of verification, this and all future Sabot Society communications would carry the code word “ultimate.” Palumbo picked up the phone to dial Billy Hiccock, but thought better of it. He called the Washington headquarters of the FBI instead.

  ∞§∞

  Tyler seemed to love her Tandoori Chicken and Hiccock was working his Lamb Biryani. One of their evolved passions was Indian food—that still cracked up Bill, considering that Janice almost kicked him out of her office the first time they met just because he had it for lunch—and now they were dining in the best Indian restaurant in D.C. He popped his finger into a properly puffed poori, the steam inside escaping from the hollow bread made the same way it had been for dozens of centuries.

  Hiccock was a little depressed and Tyler obviously noticed. “Wanna talk about it?”

  “No,” he muttered as he ripped off another piece of steaming bread. “It’s just that, well, I really don’t have a clue about what the hell I’m doing. What makes me think I’m right and Tate and the entire national security system is wrong?”

  “I didn’t think it was about that.”

  “What did you think it was about?”

  “I thought you were just investigating the possibility that you could be right.”

  “So you’re saying that they are not mutually exclusive conclusions?”

  “Yes, I know what you, what we, are doing is applying scientific methodology to a case that has more than one connection with science.”

  “So you’re saying it’s not necessarily me against them. I just happen to represent a different set of assumptions than theirs.”

  “Exactly.”

  She watched him as he pondered this way of thought for a second and then shook his head. “No, no, nothing scientific about it. I wanted to cream that bastard at the FBI. This is personal!” Hiccock noticed the hint of a smile on Tyler’s face. “How do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Manipulate me like that?”

  “Was I manipulating you?” Her eyes couldn’t have appeared more innocent.

  He nodded then tried a little reverse psychology of his own. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

  “Yes?”

  “I think that you have been doing a great job.”

  “That’s very nice of you to say.”

  “Well, I know what it’s like to work under someone who never acknowledges your contribution.” Hiccock let it hang.

  “How do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Compliment me and insult me in the same breath,” Janice, Bill’s former boss at school, said.

  “Was I doing that?” Bill said, certain his eyes couldn’t have appeared more innocent.

  “Okay, truce!”

  They both focused on their plates. After a minute, Janice looked up. “Do you trust your FBI friend?”

  “Joey? Sure. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, today when I left the Electronic Crime Lab, I walked to the Psychological Profile Division. I attended a seminar last year with the assistant there, Helen Davis, and I went to look her up. When I entered the office, she immediately closed a file marked ‘Homegrown.’ She seemed to know I was working with you. She was pretty closemouthed.”

  “Like she was ordered not to divulge squat to you?”

  “Yeah, squat, that was the word I was looking for.”

  Hiccock glanced away for a second, then rejoined Janice’s gaze. “You think this ‘Homegrown’ file is about what we are investigating?” He slammed his hand down on the table and spilled the tamarind sauce in a shallow plate. People near them turned toward the table. “Of course it is! Damn. We were supposed to share information.”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “I’m going to kick Joey’s ass.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Piano Lesson

  FROZEN FOR ALL ETERNITY with his right arm fully extended, forever warding off would-be tacklers, as the ball is clutched tightly in the left, torso twisted mid-sidestep, was the figure atop one of the many football trophies that lived on a glass shelf in William Hiccock’s apartment. Their only human contact now was when Mrs. Phelps dusted them every so often. Wild Bill barely paid them any notice any more. His Heisman Trophy was not the first won by a player from Stanford. That path had been cut by Jim Plunkett. Nevertheless, this trophy along with other prizes stood guard to his illustrious past, a history of his glory days in gold, brass, wood, and chrome.

  The kid with the golden arm was asleep in his armchair, the TV flickering in front of him. His sleepless nights and stress over the lack of progress in the investigation were taking their toll. The remote fell from his hand, awaking him startled. In a groggy haze, with one eye open and the other closed, he checked his watch. As he rubbed the sleep from his face with one hand, he searched the floor for the remote with the other. Finding it, he pointed it at the set, about to shut it off when he was caught up in an old black-and-white film on TV. A clichéd old Viennese music professor, replete with little white goatee, was giving a young girl a piano lesson.

  “You see, the spaces between the notes are as important as the notes themselves. Now once more, only let the notes ‘breathe’ this time. Feel the rhythm left by the spaces.” The actor recited his line with an accent, probably his own from Germany, but being pawned off as Austrian to the movie-going public of 1940 or so. The professor’s lesson for the day was not lost on Hiccock. As the young girl tickled the ivories on her way to Mozartville, Hiccock picked up the phone and punched in a number he knew well, thinking, the spaces between.

  “Like this, professor?” the young actress, destined for anonymity in later years, asked as she precisely paced each note.

  Ten minutes later he was in the shower when the cordless phone he left on the bathroom sink started to ring. His wet hand reached out from behind the glass shower door to pick it up.

  “Thanks for getting back to me so early,” he said as he directed the showerhead away from him.

  Tyler
was at home sitting at her vanity in a robe, a towel turbaned around her wet hair. She held her beloved pink princess phone in one hand as she put on makeup with the other. “So what are you all excited about?”

  Hiccock looked down, about to say something, but thought better of it. “In your travels, ever bump into anyone monkeying around with or involved in high-speed interstitial image retention research?”

  “It’s a little early, but are you referring to subliminal advertising?”

  “Essentially yes.”

  Extending the long, pink-coiled cord, she rose from the tufted, crimson velvet covered bench, walked over to the closet, untying the silk belt of the red Norma Kamali wrap. Exposing one shoulder then two until the robe tumbled to the floor, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Not too bad, she thought. “Back in the sixties, advertisers were starting to experiment with slipping in quick cuts of beautiful women during cigarette commercials.”

  Hiccock ran a towel over his hair with the phone tucked under his chin. “And dry, desert scenes into beer commercials,” he added. “It worked, too. Until Congress got wind of it, made it illegal, and financed research for building monitoring machines.”

  “But, Bill, the head guy on that was out of your old graduate school, what was his name … Walters … Watkins. Wallenford!” She resumed her task of eyelining.

  “Yeah, that rings a bell. They had one of those machines right there I bet.”

  “Sure. That stuff is probably collecting dust in the basement of the Media Lab. So why this sudden interest?” she asked, pulling the towel off her hair.

  “Something came to me as I was waking up.”

  “Really?” she inquired with a naughtiness that surprised her.

  “Down girl, this is work. You sure his name was Wallenford?” He was imagining her finishing her morning routine in her bra and panties. He loved the way she looked when he caught her doing something perfectly plain and ordinary. How sexy she was, even when she wasn’t trying. That brought a smile to his face that waned with a twinge of sadness. He was, after all, just imagining.