Rayborne interpreted that as bribing other officials. “Sounds like a reasonable request.”
“It’s call the Siren Project,” Christa explained. “We’re particularly interested in contacting one of the project leads, a Doctor Erich Steinus.”
“I see,” Rayborne said thoughtfully. “And then later, when the contracts are about to be awarded, if you are not the favored vendor, a more favored bidder may be found wanting for . . . technical reasons.”
Mitch nodded appreciatively. “Exactly.”
Rayborne pursed his lips. “And why don’t you contact this Doctor Steinus directly?”
“We’re not sure where he is. You know how these classified projects are, getting in touch with key people is not easy.”
“I understand.” Rayborne paused in thought. “I believe I am in a position to help you, but you should know, this kind of assistance can be a complex business. Naturally . . . there are expenses.”
“Of course,” Mitch agreed, waiting for the price.
“Because Marsin is a valued . . . associate, I’ll do it for you at a cut rate. Say five percent.”
“Five percent?” Mitch asked a little confused.
Rayborne looked surprised. “Your people at Marsin didn’t explain my terms?”
“Well,” Mitch said a little embarrassed, “I asked them to recommend someone we could deal with. We didn’t discuss money.”
“Ahh, rightly so. Five percent of the contract value.
“Of the contract value?” Christa gasped.
“Indeed. If the contract is twenty million, then my share is one million dollars.”
Mitch’s eyes widened.
“You seem surprised. Surely a twenty million dollar contract, which you may not win without my help, is worth at least a million dollars in gratuities.”
“I see your point,” Mitch said, convinced. “You have a deal, Mr Rayborne.”
“Now, there is the matter of my retainer.”
Christa forced herself to remain seated, suppressing her growing rage.
“How much do you require?” Mitch asked
“Fifty should be sufficient.”
“Fifty is fine with us,” Mitch replied evenly.
Mitch exchanged contact details with Rayborne, then they shook hands and excused themselves from his office.
Outside, Christa exploded. “What a worm! Do you know how many people sleep on the streets while that jerk is picking our pockets!”
Mitch read Rayborne’s banking details, amazed. “He’s not only a greedy, corrupt asshole, he’s confident too. He wants the money in a Washington based bank a couple of miles from Capitol Hill. You would have thought he’d at least send the money offshore.”
“When this is over,” Christa said, “He’s going to jail.”
“I’ll testify for the prosecution, but I want immunity!”
* * * *
“Lieutenant Commander Donovan Hayes,” Mitch said, introducing the lanky naval officer, “Christa Malleson.”
Commander Hayes, a career naval officer with a bent nose from an army-navy game, greeted Christa warmly, then gave Mitch an impressed look. “You’ve come up in the world, Mitch old boy.”
“It's just business,” Mitch assured him.
“Out of respect to you, Christa, I won’t tell you the stories I have on this guy. We used to play football together. Let's just say, he's the most disreputable Marine I ever knew.”
Christa smiled. “Where Mitch is concerned, nothing would surprise me, Commander.”
“Whatever the reason, an old sea dog like me always likes to see a pretty lady on deck.” Hayes looked around his rather cramped Annapolis Naval Academy office, filled with pictures of the submarines he’d served on and some of the shipmates he’d known. “It’s kind of cramped here. Should we head on down to the galley for lunch?”
“I’d rather stay here a while,” Mitch said meaningfully.
“Perhaps the lovely lady wants to head on down to the galley, and God knows, I’m a galley slave around a pretty face.” He grinned mischievously at Christa.
“Actually Commander, Mitch is right. Your cafeteria would be too public to discuss what we came here for.”
Mitch produced a small compact disk that Gunter had recorded the electrostatic sound from the Newton Institute onto. “I’ve got something I’d like you to listen to. You used to be a good sonar man.”
“Still am!” he declared proudly. “None better.”
“I thought maybe you could make something out of this.”
Hayes gave the disk a puzzled look. “I thought you'd left the Secret Service, Mitch?”
“I’ve been asked to do a little contract work for Uncle Sam.”
“That recording is classified, Commander,” Christa explained. “So, whatever conclusions you draw from it, don't leave this room.”
“Ahh, now I get it.” Hayes said knowingly, looking between Mitch and Christa. “You’re working for her?”
“Something like that.”
“So you must be. . .?” Hayes asked, glancing thoughtfully at the disk. “NSA?”
“You should know better than to ask a lady that question, Commander.”
Hayes chuckled. “You’re a lucky man, Mitch , I always wanted to take orders from a woman.” Hayes turned his attention to the disk. “Okay, exactly how classified is this thing?”
“The kind you get the electric chair for if you give it to the enemy,” Mitch informed him.
“Guess I won’t be selling it to the highest bidder, then.”
“You won’t break any laws by listening to it,” Christa reassured him.
Hayes sat down at his desk and played the disk through his computer. He pursed his lips thoughtfully when the recording finished. “Not much to go on. I don’t have the processing power they have on the subs, but let’s see what we can make of it.” Hayes activated several programs, not one available outside the military, and analyzed the sound for twenty minutes. He grunted occasionally, muttered curiously several times, but mostly worked in silence. Eventually he sat back, his hands behind his head.
“Do you know what it is?” Christa asked.
“Electrical energy in flux, that's highly activated charged particles. The rhythmic sound underlying the electrical flux is a generator. Not sure what type. Might be producing a magnetic field, but I can't be sure. And there’s that damned scream in there, no idea what that’s all about.” Hayes gave Mitch a curious look. “The real problem is the quality of the recording. Made by a long range directional mike, I guess?”
Mitch pulled a piece of paper Gunter had given him from his pocket. “If it’s any help, the sensor was an ‘ultra sonic MX40 parabolic audiotron’.”
“I’ve heard of it,” Hayes muttered with a hint of admiration. “Illegal to civilians, but very nice. I won’t ask how you got hold of one . . . I can dig up a spec on it, filter out its bias.” Hayes shook his head thoughtfully. “The God damned noisemakers kill a lot of the frequencies, but someone’s done a good job filtering them out.”
“Amazing, you can tell all that in just twenty minutes,” Christa said approvingly.
“You get a good ear tracking Russian boomers. Can I keep this? I can run a detailed analysis with the Academy facilities, we have a decent signature library that might turn up something.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Mitch said.
“Any idea what this is a recording of, anything that might show me where to look?”
“It could be anything from a high tech weapon to a hair dryer,” Mitch replied.
“Not sure the signature library has much on hair dryers.”
“Just be careful,” Christa warned. “If the wrong people knew you had this recording, you’d be in a lot of trouble.”
Mitch revealed the gun he was carrying. “She’s not talking legal trouble Don.”
Commander Hayes raised his eyebrows. “I’m a submariner, Mitch, not a gunfighter.”
“I just don’t want
you underestimating the opposition.”
Hayes looked thoughtful. “Understood.” He ejected the disk from his computer and placed it in his pocket. “All right! Are you swabs ready for the galley now?”
Chapter 4
The telephone on Mitch's bedside table woke him, just after midnight. He rolled over and grabbed for it blindly. “Hello?”
“John Mitchell?”
“Yeah,” he yawned, forcing himself awake.
“This is Lawrence Rayborne, from the Appropriations Committee.” His voice was agitated, a mix of anger and fear.
Mitch sat up. “Yes, Mr Rayborne. You’re working late.”
“We need to talk.”
“You’ve got something for me?”
“I want to know just what the hell you’ve got me into!”
“What do you mean?”
“I asked a few questions about this Siren thing, and now I have these people all over me. They’ve been watching me all day. Asking me questions.”
“What people? Who did you talk to?”
“One of the senators. You didn’t tell me this was a black project. I never get involved in those things. I want to give you your money back. The deal’s off.”
“A black project?”
“Be in my office at ten, tomorrow. I’ll give you a check for the money you deposited in my account, and then there’ll be no more communication between us. Good night.” Rayborne hung up, leaving the busy signal buzzing in Mitch’s ear.
He’s afraid.
* * * *
Mitch and Christa arrived at Rayborne’s office a few minutes before ten. Mitch had wanted to leave Christa in the hotel because he now assumed Rayborne’s office was under surveillance, but she was implacable. When they reached the outer office, the secretary was nowhere to be seen and Rayborne’s inner office door was closed. Christa took a seat while Mitch looked around the reception area, then glanced out into the hall searching for someone to announce their arrival. Finding no one, he wandered over to Rayborne’s door and placed his ear close to it, but heard nothing.
“Can I help you?” a woman’s voice sounded from the hallway door.
Mitch spun around, then silently cursed himself for being caught off guard. “Yes, we have an appointment with Mr Rayborne at ten.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought all his appointments had been cancelled. Mr Rayborne is sick today.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
The woman shrugged helplessly. “No, I don’t.” She stepped into the office. “He’s been working very hard, and is taking some personal time, on doctor's orders.”
Christa stood up slowly. “What do you mean?”
“We got a phone call this morning from a doctor telling us Mr Rayborne has been hospitalized due to a stress related illness.”
“Would you have the name of the hospital?” Mitch asked. “We’re friends, and I’d like to send him a get well message.”
The woman’s demeanor brightened. “I wrote it down. I’ll get it for you.” She stepped out of the reception area and hurried off down the hall.
“He was definitely coming here this morning, wasn’t he?” Christa asked.
“He was so pissed, and scared, he’d be here even if he had a nervous breakdown and two broken legs.”
She opened Rayborne’s office door. Finding his office deserted, she walked in, stopping in the middle of the room as if listening for something. After a moment she moved toward Rayborne’s desk cautiously, taking up position behind his chair. She slid her hands across the leather upholstery slowly, as if studying the quality, but her eyes stared off into space, deep in thought.
Mitch stood in the doorway watching her curiously. “What are you doing?”
“I don’t think he’ll be coming back to this job,” she said softly. “Ever.”
Mitch was struck by how white her face had become, and the faraway look in her eyes.
“He’s not suffering from stress,” she whispered.
“The chair told you that?” Mitch asked incredulously.
Her eyes regained focus. “Did he call you from here?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
The secretary returned with the hospital's details, giving Christa a suspicious look. “You’re not supposed to be in here, Miss.”
“Thanks,” Mitch said as he took the sheet of paper out of the woman’s hand, before she could change her mind, then stepped past her and headed for the door. “I’ll be sure to let Mr. Rayborne know how helpful you were.”
Christa hurried after Mitch without offering an excuse to the woman. By the time they were outside the building, the color had returned to her cheeks.
As they walked to the car, Mitch asked, “What was all that about, in Rayborne’s office?”
“Rayborne isn’t going to be of much help to us now,” Christa said, brushing his question aside.
“How do you know?”
“Call it . . . woman’s intuition.”
Mitch thought there was a trace of sadness in her voice, which surprised him, considering how much she detested the greedy little bureaucrat.
* * * *
Mitch parked in front of a two story southern style building, surrounded by neatly manicured gardens. The hospital had a picturesque view of Chesapeake Bay, and felt more like a convalescent home for wounded soldiers or the elderly, than a medical facility.
At the front desk, they were met by a nurse who directed them toward Rayborne’s ward. They passed through the main building, out into expansive gardens enclosed on all sides by hospital wards. Narrow concrete paths crisscrossed the common, which was partially sheltered from the summer sun by large sycamore trees. Patients sat peacefully on park benches, and in wheelchairs, all under the watchful supervision of white clothed nurses. The only sound above a whisper was the chirping of birds in the trees.
Mitch and Christa followed the path toward Rayborne’s ward, passing a nurse pushing a wheelchair containing a young boy, his head bent forward at an odd angle. The nurse stopped to wipe spittle from the boy’s shirt as he drooled on himself.
When they were out of earshot, Mitch whispered. “This is a nut house, not a hospital.”
“Yes,” she said unsurprised.
Mitch noticed the vacant looks on the patients sitting absently under the trees, then as they approached the ward, he said, “If there are guards outside his door, we keep walking.”
“If I’m right, Mitch, Rayborne will be unguarded.”
“Right about what?”
“His condition.”
Mitch looked confused, but she did not elaborate.
They entered the ward through white, freshly painted, double doors. Inside, visitors whispered in hushed tones to the patients they had come to see, and occasionally a nurse would walk past. Down the hall Mitch spotted a man with his hands in his pockets leaning against a wall outside a room. The man watched people coming and going, glancing at Mitch and Christa as they approached, and for a moment, Mitch thought he was a guard. When they were halfway to him, an old woman ambled out of the room in her night gown, helped by a white coated orderly. The man bent down and kissed the frail old woman on the cheek.
“Ready, Grandma?”
The old woman seemed to be unaware of what he said, so he took her arm and led her to the far door, and the garden beyond. Mitch relaxed, then began reading room numbers. When he found Rayborne’s room, he checked the hall was deserted before entering. Inside the room were four beds. Three were empty. One contained Rayborne, lying peacefully, as if heavily sedated. He was dressed in a white hospital gown and stared blankly out of the window at nothing. Mitch was struck by the complete absence in his eyes, and his oblivion at their arrival. Christa stood at the end of the bed studying his face while Mitch shook Rayborne’s shoulder gently.
“Rayborne, can you hear me?”
Rayborne’s glazed stare was unwavering. Mitch glanced at the door to make sure no one was watching, then he pulled the sheet back uncoveri
ng Rayborne’s body.
“What are you doing?” Christa whispered.
Mitch studied Rayborne’s head, turning it left and right. “Looking for injuries.” He ran his hands down both of Rayborne’s arms, quickly checked his chest and legs, then replaced the sheets. “He’s as clean as a whistle. No broken bones, no bruises, no sign of a struggle. I can’t see a man of this size going down without a fight.”
Christa sat on the bed and stroked Rayborne’s head gently. “Lawrence, blink twice if you know I’m here.”
Rayborne’s eyes continued to stare emptily into space.
Christa stopped stroking his head and relaxed. Mitch watched her eyes take on that far away look again as she concentrated. After a few moments, she turned to Mitch and shook her head. “He’s gone.”
Mitch looked at Rayborne confused. “What does that mean exactly? Gone?”
“He has no cognitive ability. No trace of identity. His body still functions, but Lawrence Rayborne no longer exists.” She sighed, then walked out into the hall.
Mitch glanced at Rayborne curiously, then followed her out. He went to the nurse on duty, who smiled politely as he leaned toward her.
“Excuse me,” he said, “I’m Mr Rayborne’s brother-in-law. His sister asked me to check on him before she came up with the kids. Could tell me what happened to him?”
The nurse nodded and called up Rayborne’s records on her computer. “Mr Rayborne was brought in early this morning, about five AM. He’s had a preliminary brain scan, apparently he’s had . . . “ she looked up, gauging if she should tell Mitch the truth. “Perhaps you should talk to a doctor.”
Mitch waved her to continue. “Give it to me straight. I don’t want the kids coming up here if it’s really bad.”
“He’s had a massive brain hemorrhage, cause unknown. There are no tumors or blood clots in the brain and his bodily functions are unimpaired. I'm sorry, but he’s suffered severe and irreparable brain damage.”
“I see. Who brought him in?”
“He came by ambulance. I don’t know who arranged for the ambulance.”
The Siren Project Page 6
