by Mike Resnick
“And since you're tied into the phone company, you'll know who he calls?”
“Right. And who that guy calls, and the next guy, all the way up the line. As long as they don't leave the area code, we've got ’em.”
“What if Wild Card is so insulated that nobody calls him?”
“We'll make sure they do. Start with Magnussen.”
He picked up the vidphone.
“Should I blank out the screen, do you think?”
“He'll never pinpoint your location from the background here,” she replied. “Besides, we want him to know you're in Washington.”
“I thought you'd rigged one of these computers to try breaking into my files, so everyone would think I was in Washington.”
“It may have worked for a couple of days, but somebody has to have released General Roth by now. Magnussen knows where you were, all right.”
He dialed Magnussen's number, then waited until the attorney's face was displayed on the small screen.
“Max!” exclaimed Magnussen. “Where the hell are you?”
“Close enough,” said Becker.
“You know that everyone is looking for you, don't you? What the hell did you do up in New York?”
“They were looking for me before I left,” said Becker. “Now I'm doing the looking.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don't play stupid with me, Jim. You know who I'm after.”
“Me?” asked Magnussen, confused.
“You? You don't count. You're just a messenger boy. Now let me give you a message for your boss.”
“For the general?”
“Don't play games with me, Jim; I haven't got time. You tell Wild Card he's got one hour to call off his men or I'm coming after him.”
“Who the hell is Wild Card?” demanded Magnussen in exasperation.
“Just tell him,” said Becker. “One hour, or he's a dead man.”
He broke the connection.
“Well done, Counselor,” said Jaimie. “You sounded sincere.” She checked her computer. “He's already on the phone.”
“Who is he calling?”
“Your general. Given the chain of command I uncovered, it'll probably take between five and ten calls before they reach Wild Card.”
“It may not stop with him, though,” Becker pointed out. “Once he hears what I said, he's bound to get on the phone and issue more orders.”
“That's why we're not gonna sit around waiting for the sequence to stop. Pick up the phone again.”
“Who am I calling?”
“General Harry Blackmane.”
“I've heard that name,” said Becker.
“You heard it from me. He's one of Roth's superiors.”
“What do I say to him?”
“Same thing.”
He made the call, waited long enough to Blackmane to identify him, and then reiterated his threats to Wild Card.
She checked her computer again when he had hung up the phone. “He's being a bit more thoughtful,” she said. “Probably wants to find out what you've been up to first.” A tiny spot on her screen started blinking. “Ah, there he goes!”
“Who next?”
“Well, there's no sense calling Roth or General Fischer, since they both have to report to Blackmane. Let's take a shot in the dark.”
“Who?”
“Janis Robley.”
“Didn't she used to be a Senator from Alabama?”
“Mississippi,” Jaimie corrected him. “But now she's on the National Security Council. If anybody outside the President and the military knows about Wild Card, it's got to be the NSC.”
“There are five members. Why her?”
“Because we don't know how tight the other members are with the space service, but my computer says that when she was in the Senate she voted for every appropriation they requested.”
“Okay,” he said. “Let's give it a shot.”
He dialed the number she gave him, only to get a prerecorded holograph of Janis Robley apologizing for not being able to answer her phone personally.
Becker hung up instantly and turned to Jaimie. “Somehow my message doesn't seem like the kind of thing we want to leave on an answering device,” he said dryly.
“Right,” she agreed. “Let's try her office. Maybe she's working late.”
A moment later a gray-haired woman with piercing blue eyes and a jutting chin appeared on the screen.
“How did you get past my receptionist?” she demanded by way of greeting.
“Never mind that,” said Becker. “Do you know who I am?”
“Should I?”
“Wild Card knows. Tell him he's in big trouble if he doesn't call off his men.”
“Who are you and who is Wild Card?” she said coldly.
“Just tell him.”
“Now listen to me, Major Becker, I—”
He broke the connection.
“'Major Becker',” he repeated. “Pretty good guess for someone who didn't know me.”
“PR agencies get millions of dollars for making people half as famous as you seem to be in this town,” Jaimie responded ironically. “Well, I see she's already making a call.”
“Now what?” asked Becker.
“Now we wait.”
“For how long?”
“Oh, I'd say at least half an hour, probably a little more.”
“And then?”
She smiled. “Then the fun begins.”
He walked over to a couch and lay down on it. “Wake me when the fireworks start,” he said.
“You're kidding!” she said.
“I'm exhausted. I've been running for my life for four days, and I probably haven't had fifteen hours sleep total. You may enjoy this kind of thing, but I'm not built for it.”
She stared at him for a moment, then got up, walked into her bedroom, and returned with a blanket, which she spread over his already-snoring form. Then she walked over to her bookcase, picked up an exceptionally esoteric technical manual, and browsed through it for the next thirty minutes. When she was through, she put it back in its place, walked over to Becker, decided to let him sleep another hour, and went into the kitchen to make something for them to eat.
She discovered that she was out of eggs and almost out of coffee, and she scribbled a note telling him she would was going out to an all-night supermarket and would be back in twenty minutes. She stuck the note to her computer screen with a piece of tape, then softly opened the front door and climbed down the stairs to the main entrance.
21.
Becker woke up, stretched his arms and legs, got slowly to his feet, and suddenly realized that something was wrong. It had been early evening when they reached Washington, which meant he had surely gone to sleep before nine o'clock—but now the sun was shining through the living room window.
“Jaimie?” he called hoarsely. “Why the hell did you let me sleep so long?”
There was no answer.
Then he saw the note on the computer screen, and walked over to read it.
Counselor,
You looked so peaceful that I decided to let you sleep another half hour. I'm just popping out to buy us some food; if you wake up before I get back, don't panic: I'll return in just a couple of minutes.
J.
How the hell long had he been asleep?
He checked his watch. Eight o'clock. That means she'd been gone at least nine hours, possibly ten.
Which meant that they had her.
And that meant that when they broke her—she was a tough little girl, as streetwise as they came, but he never doubted that the military had methods that could break anyone—they'd be coming after him.
It was time to get out. Past time.
But he didn't know where to go, and now that he didn't have Jaimie to help him, he knew he'd never be able to set up another means of identifying Wild Card.
So, trying to fight back the sense of impending panic he felt in his stomach, he forced himself to sit do
wn for a moment and consider his options. Then, with a sigh, he walked over to Jaimie's computer, which was still humming and glowing with life.
He sat down at the keyboard, looked at the screen, found the symbols meaningless, and typed in a single word:
Help.
Immediately the symbols vanished, to be replaced by a statement in block letters:
HOW MAY I HELP YOU?
This is not Jaimie Nchobe. This is Major Maxwell Becker. I am not as conversant with computers as Jaimie Nchobe is, so I need help to understand the results of the program you are running.
HOW MAY I HELP YOU?
Did it understand him, or was it just repeating itself mechanically? He stared at it for a moment, then began typing.
You are keeping a log of all phone numbers called by Colonel James Magnussen, General Henry Blackmane, and Janis Robley. Is that correct?
NO.
“No?” he muttered.
What ARE you doing?
I AM KEEPING A LOG OF THE PROGRESSION OF PHONE CALLS BEGUN BY COLONEL JAMES MAGNUSSEN AT 8:43 PM, BY GENERAL HARRY BLACKMANE AT 8:47 PM, AND BY JANIS ROBLEY AT 8:58 PM.
Precision, Jaimie kept telling him. It's only a machine; it will answer exactly what you ask, nothing more, nothing less.
End the progression now.
DONE.
Compare all the phone numbers, and tell me if any appear on all three progressions.
YES.
Which number?
THERE ARE THREE: 934-12998, 227-25256, AND 227-80003.
Who belongs to each number?
QUESTION UNCLEAR.
Of course, he thought impatiently; people don't belong to numbers. Numbers belong to people. He re-worded the question.
In whose name is 934-12998 registered?
GENERAL TRUMAN FISCHER.
No, that wouldn't be Wild Card. He was Roth's immediate superior, the man who had okayed the kill order, but it wouldn't have been initiated by him.
In whose name is 227-25256 registered?
GENERAL WANDA JANOWITZ.
He tried to remember what she had to do with the chain of command, and finally it came to him: Jaimie has said that she and Blackmane should have been at the top of the chain, but that both of them actually reported to Wild Card.
He took a deep breath, then played his final card.
In whose name is 227-80003 registered?
COLONEL LYDELL STUART.
Colonel, not General?
THAT IS CORRECT.
Please supply Colonel Lydell Stuart's address.
The address was a Georgetown brownstone.
Is 227-80003 the last number in each progression?
NO.
Is 227-80003 the last number in ANY progression?
IT IS THE LAST NUMBER IN THOSE PROGRESSIONS BEGINNING WITH JANIS ROBLEY AND COLONEL JAMES MAGNUSSEN.
What number did Colonel Lydell Stuart call in the General Harry Blackmane progression?
100-10000, EXTENSION UNKNOWN.
In whose name is 100-10000 registered?
THE WHITE HOUSE.
If Becker had had any lingering doubts that Lydell Stuart was Wild Card, that took care of them.
Thank you, computer. I am going to deactivate you now. What order must I give you to retain this program's information in your memory?
TYPE PROGRAM 106-JAIMIE-MB-4.
He typed in the program code.
NOW TYPE RETAIN.
Retain.
NOW YOU MAY DEACTIVATE ME WITH NO LOSS OF DATA.
He turned off the computer, walked over to the window, and looked out, half expecting to see a group of uniformed men storming the apartment. But the street was empty, and he decided he had a few more minutes before he had to disappear.
He walked over to the phone, picked it up, and dialed. When the connection was made, he found himself looking at a lean, clean-shaven man with graying black hair that formed a distinctive widow's peak over his forehead.
“Hello, Wild Card,” said Becker.
Lydell Stuart looked unperturbed.
“Very good, Major Becker. You have been a source of continual surprise to me during the past few days.”
“I assume that's a compliment,” said Becker dryly.
“You may take it as such.” Stuart paused. “You've caused me a considerable amount of trouble.”
“Not half of what I'm going to cause you before I'm done.”
“Why don't we meet and discuss matters?”
“Why don't you release my friend, and perhaps I'll consider it.”
“I'm afraid I can't do that, Major. She's the only hold we have on you.”
“Are you suggesting a trade?”
“Not until we find out what she knows.”
“She won't be worth trading for once you get done with her,” said Becker.
“We're not monsters, Major Becker,” said Stuart calmly. “We have painless ways of extracting information.”
“You also have painful ways of trying to stop its dissemination,” noted Becker. “Your goons have been trying to kill me for the past four days.”
“They are not ‘goons', Major. They are members of the same service that you belong to, and they are every bit as loyal to it as you are.”
“That's because it's never gone out of its way to kill them.”
“Putting out a Code Red on you was a matter of policy, Major,” said Stuart. “There was nothing personal involved.”
“I feel much better just knowing that,” said Becker. “Now you listen to me, you son of a bitch. When I started looking for you, all I wanted to do was talk, to try to reason with you. But now you've kidnapped someone whose only crime was that she helped me survive. You turn Jaimie Nchobe loose within 30 minutes or you're a dead man.”
“I can't do that, Major.”
“You've had your warning.”
“I am very well protected, Major.”
“You won't be by this evening,” said Becker. “They'll all be too busy reading the newspapers.”
“It would be very unwise of you to go to the press with what you know, or think you know, Major,” said Stuart.
“Are you threatening me, Colonel?” said Becker with a harsh laugh. “What will you do—put out a hit on me?”
“I'm trying to prevent you from making a very serious mistake.”
“From where I sit, the most serious mistake I could make would be to trust anyone connected with you.”
“If you'll come in right now, I'll cancel the Code Red,” said Stuart. “We have to talk.”
“We've been talking,” said Becker. “But one of us hasn't been listening.” He glared at the face on the screen. “You bastards lied to me and misled me and tried to kill me. Why should I believe you?”
“You have no reason to, other than my word.”
“Your word isn't exactly coin of the realm,” said Becker. “Let Jaimie Nchobe go as a show of good faith, and maybe I'll consider it.”
“I can't do that, Major.”
“Then put your affairs in order, Colonel,” said Becker. “Sign your will, kiss your wife good-bye, and take a last good look at your children—because after I've exposed what's going on, I'm coming to kill you.”
Becker reached out and broke the connection.
22.
James Magnussen finished his coffee, left a tip at his table, picked up his check, and walked up to the cashier's desk, his briefcase tucked under his arm.
It had been a long morning. He'd been completely cut off from whatever was going on with Becker, but he couldn't help noticing the taut faces around him and hearing the nervous voices conversing in low whispers. Whatever the hell was going on, his old assistant was in a peck of trouble, and from his own sporadic phone conversations with him, he had half-concluded that Becker had gone off the deep end.
None of which made his work any easier. The fact that Jennings had changed his plea made the case easier, but as a lawyer he knew that an easy case could be lost on a technicality just
as quickly as a difficult one—and that with an easy case there was only one man to blame. So he threw himself into his preparation and tried to ignore all the hustle and bustle going on about him.
Ordinarily he ate in the commissary, but today he felt he just had to get away for a while, so he had taken his lunch at a favorite restaurant. He wanted no company, no conversation, just an hour to examine his paperwork without distraction. He had spent fifty-five minutes of that hour, and now, somewhat refreshed, he was ready to drive back to his office.
He walked to the parking lot, opened the door to his car, and got behind the wheel. It was just after he activated the ignition that he felt the end of the revolver placed against the back of his head.
“You really ought to get in the habit of locking your car, Jim,” said Becker's voice from somewhere behind him. “You never know who you'll find in it.”
“Max?”
“That's right.”
Magnussen started to turn, but the gun was pressed harder against his head.
“Just keep your eyes on the road,” said Becker.
“Are you going to kill me?” asked Magnussen nervously.
“If I wanted to kill you, you'd be dead already,” said Becker. “Start driving.”
“Where to?” asked Magnussen, pulling out onto the street.
“I'll give you directions,” said Becker. “Turn left at the corner, and then go straight for three stoplights.”
Twice during their circuitous course Becker had Magnussen slowly circle an entire block, just to make sure they weren't being followed. When he was sure that no one was tailing them, he ordered Magnussen to drive out of town to a small forest preserve.
“All right,” said Becker, when they arrived at an empty parking lot. “Stop the car and get out.”
Magnussen did as he was told and stepped out onto the gravel, his hands above his head.
“Put ’em down,” said Becker. “We don't want to attract any attention.”
“I'll settle for all the attention we can get,” replied Magnussen, lowering his hands. “I don't like the thought of being killed and left here.”
“I told you I haven't sought you out to kill you, Jim,” said Becker calmly.
“Then why am I here?”
“Because you're the only man I know that I think I can trust.”
“You've got a hell of a funny way of showing it.”
“Would you have come if I hadn't threatened you with a gun?” asked Becker.
