by Pat Mullan
"Well, many couples have big fights once in a while. As far as I know, they kissed and made up a few days later", Owen said dismissively.
"Why are you asking me all of this?" said Owen, feeling himself getting angry and knowing that he shouldn't lose control here.
"I'll tell you why, Mr. MacDara. Mrs. Russo sat on that bench yesterday with her attorney beside her. She claimed that she and her husband had a good marriage and a loving relationship. She lied, Mr. MacDara", said Stern as he came around the desk again.
"I don't want you to sit there and try to protect your friend's reputation. I want the truth", Stern almost yelled as he ran his hand over his balding forehead.
MacDara just sat, impassive. He decided that, in this case, silence was golden. He didn't like this Assistant D.A. Ambitious. Out to make a name for himself, thought MacDara.
"You can go now, Mr. MacDara. But I want you to stay in touch with Detective Gennaro and his team", said Stern.
As Owen got up to leave, Stern still hadn't finished his monologue.
"His wife is a cold fish, Mr. MacDara. I believe she had her husband killed. And I intend to prove it. And, if necessary, I'll put you on the stand!"
That same afternoon the message that appeared on MacDara's PC was cryptic :
Subj:Command Performance
Owen : Meet me at the White House at 3 p.m. tomorrow. The President wants to see you. Be there. Bart.
Well, MacDara mused, there was no mistaking what was meant by a 'Command Performance'.
He packed an overnight bag and planned to spend an hour in the office in the morning before taking the shuttle to Washington from La Guardia.
FIFTEEN
The White House
Washington, D.C.,
The President met General Bartley Shields and Owen MacDara at the door of the Oval Office. He was entirely like the image he projected in the media : friendly and engaging. He greeted MacDara warmly, held his hand in a firm clasp, then transferred his hand to Owen's shoulder and guided him to a chair.
"I'm glad you could come. Bart has told me a lot about you. I've asked you here because I need your help. Bart, please proceed."
"Thank you, Mr. President. Before I commence I'd like to say that the seriousness of what I am about to cover has just been underscored by the events of recent days in Japan. This morning's news gives us even more cause for concern. The Japanese authorities believe they may have uncovered a chemical plant for the large-scale production of Sarin. Even worse, they may also have discovered the ingredients needed to produce biological weapons."
The President had already been briefed on the matter by the National Security Council and MacDara couldn't avoid knowing about it also. It had been the headlines in all the international media in recent days. Eleven people were killed and more than five thousand injured when Sarin nerve gas was released in the Tokyo subway system.
General Shields had set up his laptop computer so that the President and Owen MacDara could easily view the screen, still talking as he did so.
"Mr. President, the deadly thing about Sarin is that it is a simple compound that any amateur chemist could put together. As you know, it was first developed by Germany in World War Two but they never used it. Saddam Hussein did. He used it against Iran."
"What does it do, exactly?" asked the President.
"It's totally colorless and odorless. It's absorbed through the skin or lungs and affects the nervous system. Your lungs become congested, you sweat and you vomit. Then you go into convulsions and you can die in about fifteen minutes. It's twenty times more lethal than potassium cyanide. It's also heavier than air so it stays close to the ground and can kill a lot more people."
"That's exactly why I put top priority on this. We're vulnerable and the World Trade Center bombing brought that home to us. We need to be able to cope effectively if we suffer casualties like the ones in Japan. That doesn't mean that I don't expect us to prevent something like this from happening here. We've got to stop it before it happens."
"I know, Mr. President. All our agencies are ready and well-trained to limit casualties from just such an attack. But we're way behind in detection. We're on top of the movement of material that might be used for nuclear weapons and we've got the best hi-tech sensors to help us detect conventional stuff but we're nowhere on this chemical thing."
General Shields' laptop was linked to STOP and he briefed the President on Sanderson's most recent A.I. breakthrough. His briefing was succinct and took only about ten minutes.
When General Shields had finished the President put down the glass of water he had been sipping and looked directly at Owen MacDara, calling him familiarly by his first name, as though he had been an old school buddy.
"Owen, this is where you come in. I called you here because I need you. Bart, bring us up to date on the matter we discussed."
Bart Shields was rolling one of his favorite cigars between his right thumb and forefinger. He'd never light up in the Oval Office. Occasionally he'd put the end in his mouth and roll it around his tongue, just like a pacifier. He put down the cigar and looked directly at MacDara.
"The President knows everything we've discussed. I've briefed him on the murders of your friends Murphy Armstrong and Jay Russo, the disappearance of Major Whiteside and the assault on Ruth Whiteside."
MacDara remained silent. Even though he had convinced General Shields to listen to his theories and fears, he had never expected to be sitting in the Oval Office with the President. Shields continued.
"I've also informed the President about your suspicions regarding General Walker..."
The President interrupted :
"And I feel exactly the same as Bart about Zach Walker. He's an outstanding American and a great patriot. Your suspicions must be unfounded."
MacDara didn't respond to the President. He held his own counsel as Bart Shields started to speak again.
"There's always been extreme groups in this country : the Ku Klux Klan, the Aryan Nation, the Symbionese Liberation Army, the SDS, the Black Panthers and many others. But something's changed out there. The movement to the Right is not just another case of the pendulum swinging again. We're not talking about fiscal and religious conservatism. This movement is more sinister. Out in the West, the Mid-west and the South we see more and more anti-government movements. Some have acted to roll back taxes, others, the more sinister ones, are training in combat fatigues with assault weapons. And, let's not forget the Liberal East. Some of the intelligentia of these movements can be found in our prominent Eastern universities and think tanks. We have evidence that leads us to believe that many of these groups have established a network of relationships. That's new and that's a threat to our democracy."
Shields paused, reached for the Macanudo and stuck it in his mouth again. The President cut in :
"We're certain that there are people belonging to this movement right here on Capitol Hill. In our own Government. Maybe even in my Cabinet."
The President was grim. His usual affable demeanor had disappeared.
"That's where you come in, Owen. I need to know the extent of the threat to this nation. I can't use the CIA, the FBI, the Secret Service or anyone in the NSC. We could have a mole or a fifth column anywhere. Bart Shields would trust you with his life and I would trust Bart with mine. I want you to find out who's behind all of this."
MacDara was taken aback. He had not anticipated this. But there was no debate in his mind.
"Yes, Mr. President. I only hope that I can do the job."
"Owen, I've looked at your record and your accomplishments. You're well qualified. And I believe you have a score to settle with somebody. You'll report directly to General Shields but you'll have my full authority. Can you turn your business over to someone for a while?"
"Yes, Mr. President, I can. My business is run by my senior managers. They all own a piece of GMA. Dick Massey, my Executive Vice President, already handles the daily operating affairs. He's often been in full cha
rge in my absence."
The President rose from his chair. The meeting was over. As he ushered General Shields and Owen MacDara from the Oval Office, he once again put his hand on Owen's shoulder and said :
"I know you'll succeed. And when you do I won't be able to recognize your accomplishment. Remember, Owen, this meeting never happened. The people of America must never learn of this evil. It would destroy us."
Back in his office the General finally lit his Macanudo. Small nimbus clouds of smoke circled his head giving him a surreal appearance. Taking the cigar out of his mouth he looked across at Owen MacDara and his face broke into a mischievous grin.
"I wanted you to join us years ago, Owen. It's a shame I've had to resort to such extreme methods to get you on board!"
Owen MacDara had fully regained his composure. He laughed heartily with the General at his own expense. Then they got down to business.
"How long will it take to turn over the reins at GMA?"
"Couple of days. That's all. I'll put Massey in charge and brief my seniors."
"OK. Let's say we meet here in three days. I'll brief you in more detail then. I also want you to look at the latest output from the STOP system. And, we'll decide on a plan of action for you."
MacDara took the next available shuttle to New York and headed straight for Dune Road. He called Dick Massey at home and asked him to arrange two meetings at GMA Headquarters for eight in the morning; first hour with Dick and then another hour with his senior managers starting at nine a.m. That done, he phoned Kate at MGH. There was no change. Ruth Whiteside was still in a coma.
Washington D.C.
The National Security Council
Sanderson was livid. He was pacing up and down in front of Shield's desk. MacDara had only heard about Sanderson, never met him. He sat transfixed. Sanderson started to talk, his words running together as fast as his feet:
"We're under attack, Sir. We're really under attack!"
"Tell me again, Larry."
"It's like I said. I was in the middle of the next AI run. Surfin' the Internet and every other network. AI starts to warn me that our command computers are being hit on up to a thousand times a day. Sir, that's an invasion!"
"What do you mean by 'hit on' ?"
"Hackers! People trying to crack our network security. Beat our encryption systems."
"You mean computer nerds playing games?"
"No, Sir. Some of them, maybe. But not this many. This is an organized attack. AI thinks so too!"
General Shields told Larry to sit down. His order was not obeyed. Larry continued to pace the floor restlessly. The General swung his chair around and picked up the phone:
"Sally, get me Colonel Tomkins at our Intelligence and Security Command."
Bart Shields sucked on his unlit Macanudo as he waited. MacDara tried to speak to Sanderson but he was ignored. Larry had retreated into his own head again.
"Dick, Bart Shields. I have Larry Sanderson here. He's telling me that hackers are trying to get into our command computers at the Pentagon. Do you know anything about this?"
"Yes, I know about that. We've always detected twenty-five or thirty a day. There's more? Maybe two or three hundred! But you can't prove that!"
"How would a thousand a day sound like?"
"No, I'm not kidding, Dick. Larry Sanderson says that STOP's AI system detected them."
"Larry, would you pick up the phone and talk to Dick Tomkins."
That was the first time that Sanderson stopped his restless pacing. He crossed to the General's desk and took the receiver.
"Yes, Sir, Colonel Tomkins. AI detected and logged them. About thirty percent of them originated outside the country. Seventy percent right here. Yes, Sir. I'll do that, Sir."
Sanderson handed the telephone back to the General:
"Dick, I'll be down there to see you. I want to get to the bottom of this right away."
He hung up the telephone and lit his Macanudo. Somehow, Sanderson was standing rooted in the same place.
"Larry, are you able to identify any of them?"
"AI tagged two of them. One came from a computer in a Cybercafe in London. You know, one of those places where nerds and yuppies drink coffee and surf the net. Number two started out here in the U.S.!"
"Where?"
"Tennessee. It came from a computer up in the hills. Beyond Nashville. Someplace called the Millennium Covenant."
"Millennium Covenant. Isn't that the crazy bunch that's preparing for Armageddon. McNab? Right? Colonel George McNab. Vietnam hero. Patriot. God save us from ourselves."
General Shields threw his hands in the air, as though imploring the Almighty and told Sanderson:
"Check those messages out again. See if AI can tag any more of them. This Millennium one is probably an isolated instance. But we can't assume anything. I want everything you can put together on Colonel McNab and his merry bunch."
As Sanderson left, Bart Shields looked at Owen MacDara:
"What do you think, Owen?"
"I don't like it. One thousand attempts to break into our command computers is not just the work of individual hackers. Sounds like somebody's preparing to launch an Infowar against us."
Dune Road, The Hamptons
Ruth Whiteside was awake. Out of the coma. Owen MacDara found himself infected by the euphoria in Kate's voice.
"I know it's 4 a.m. I know I woke you up. But I couldn't wait."
"How is she, Kate?"
"She's great. She's alert. Knew me right away. The only thing she seems to have lost is time. She can't believe she's been in a coma for almost two months. We had to get her the daily newspapers so that she could see the date. Even then she was skeptical."
"Is Dr. Hoffman with you?"
"Yes. He left instructions to be notified anytime, anywhere, if she regained consciousness. He got here about an hour ago. Says he'll keep her for at least a week for further examination. Then if she seems alright, he'll send her home to convalesce. But she'll need daily physical therapy. Even though her fractures have healed her confinement hasn't helped. She probably won't be able to walk right away. But that's the least of my worries now that she's back with us."
"Does she remember what happened to her?"
"Yes. Just as though it happened yesterday. Which, to her, it did. Owen, she's asking for you. Wants to see you as soon as possible but I think it's best that you don't see her till she gets home. I don't want her to relive what happened for a while."
"You're right, Kate. As much as I'd like to see you both. I have to go to Miami for a couple of days. I'll fly up when I get back. Hopefully, your mother will be at home by then."
It was 4:30 a.m. and MacDara was too wired to sleep anymore. So he quickly donned a sweatsuit and sneakers and walked the few yards from his front door to Dune Road. Turning left he started jogging, heading west towards Captain Norms, remembering the last time that he and Kate had treated themselves to the Captain's fresh seafood and a carafe of the best house white in the Hamptons. There had been a moon out that night. He remembered Kate afterwards, profiled against the yachts moored there hair blowing in the wind and an ebony glow on her cheekbones in the dusk of the evening. A couple of other joggers were out and an occasional vehicle moved in and out of his vision. Even at five a.m. life was stirring on Dune Road. So he didn't pay much attention to the two men in the late model Ford that pulled out of the side-road on his right as he passed. When he jogged he liked to get his heart-rate up so he usually maintained a good pace. He was completely unaware that the Ford was following but staying a couple of hundred yards behind him. About a mile from his house he hit an area of open ground on his left with only a couple of houses sited on the distant dunes on his right. He was startled by the noise of rapid acceleration and glanced over his shoulder just in time to see the Ford bearing down on him doing at least eighty. He had barely time to jump free, landing in the dunes on his left. Sprayed by sand he could not make out a license plate but noticed a patrol car pul
l out with lights flashing and give chase to the Ford. People on Dune Road paid well for their police protection.
MacDara picked himself up and turned back. Time to cut short his run.
SIXTEEN
Florida
"Bushmills, please. Straight up, no ice."
They had taken off from La Guardia about twenty minutes earlier and were now cruising at thirty-one thousand feet. MacDara had a window seat in business class. The sky was a clear blue but the ground below was screened from view by a thick quilt of white cotton clouds.
"Your Bushmills, Sir."
The steward handed him a glass and two small bottles of Irish whiskey. He adjusted the table attached to the seat in front of him, opened and poured one of the whiskies, and savored the smooth peatiness of the Bushmills. One of the indulgences of flying, he told himself. He didn't normally have a Bushmills at eleven o'clock in the morning.
The flight wasn't full and no-one had taken the seat next to him. He pulled his briefcase from under the seat in front of him and took out Major Whiteside's journal. He wanted to read that entry again, the one that described the Miami trip.
March 12, 1994.........flew down from Washington to Miami. Drove to Key West and stayed overnight with Doctor Dan Pepper. I needed his views and opinions of a lifetime in medicine. He was my role model at Walter Reade. He's 91 and sharp as a whip. Still does push-ups every day till it hurts. He's got a half dozen projects going at once. Great two days...the best memories...could have stayed longer. Must go back when I've finished these memoirs. Maybe I'll take Ruth next time...liked Key West...
It was eerie. As MacDara made his way through the airport the air was filled with the buzz of conversation. But it wasn't in English. The buzz was Spanish. Nothing had a Norte Americano ambience.
