by Tom Clancy
The captain smiled. “I’m happy to say I have nothing of particularly earth-shaking importance to report today. The Net is running as smoothly as we could hope. No emergencies or baffling mysteries.”
As he spoke, Winters glanced over to where Matt and his friends stood. Matt sort of ducked his head. Well, they did have something of a reputation for leaping into Net Force cases. With nothing going on, at least that wasn’t likely to happen this time around.
“This year marks the FBI’s ninetieth birthday,” Winters went on. “Although the Justice Department has had investigators since 1908, we didn’t officially become the Federal Bureau of Investigation until July 1, 1935.
“To mark the anniversary, the Bureau is setting up some historical simulations. The first of them opens this week, commemorating the antigangster successes of the 1930s.”
“The glory days of the G-men,” Megan muttered. “Before the first director gave in to megalomania.”
Matt couldn’t help contrasting Captain Winters with the nasty, fleshy virtual G-man he’d encountered in Ed Saunders’s sim. Even J. Edgar Hoover hadn’t been that ugly. I really have to have a little talk with Ed about his FBI agent, he told himself. The sooner, the better.
2
Sometimes Matt’s friends hung out after the official Net Force Explorers meetings, switching through the Net to one of the kids’ virtual workspaces. Tonight, however, Matt headed straight back to his own computer domain. He wanted to see if he had a chance of catching Ed Saunders.
No sooner did he synch in to his own space — a slab of black-and-white marble floating unsupported in the night sky — than he saw that one of the items scattered across the flying desktop was blinking determinedly. It was the tiny sculpture of an ear — an icon for Matt’s virtmail account. Somebody had contacted him.
Judging from the intensity of the blinking, the message appeared urgent.
Matt vocalized a command — he could have simply thought it, but speaking helped him to concentrate. The virtmail program projected the titles of his latest messages in the air in front of him. The urgent one had little virtual flames flickering around its edges. It came from Ed Saunders.
Old Ed must have been reading my mind, Matt thought.
He gave the command to play the message. But instead of the sim-master’s face, letters appeared. How bizarre. Shrugging, Matt started to read. He blinked as the message floating before him sank in.
No link-ins to the sim until further notice, the words curtly announced. I’ve been hit with several nasty letters from lawyers — of the “cease and desist” variety. Let’s talk it out — tomorrow, six o’clock, my place.
The bottom line of the message was a Net address.
Well, there goes the crew’s chances for getting any walk-ons, Matt thought. What’s all this “cease and desist” stuff?
Matt got his answer the next evening. With his homework finished and his parents both late for dinner, he was completely free for the virtual meeting. He linked in precisely at six, giving his computer Ed Saunders’s Net address. In the course of the day he’d repeated it so often, he’d memorized it.
Closing his eyes, Matt found himself flung through a kaleidoscope of spinning lights, the vast glowing structures of cyberspace streaming past him. Matt swung suddenly and headed for a compact neon-adorned office building — the sort of virtual address a small-scale entrepreneur might use.
Some of these lesser operations were housed in featureless cubes. Ed Saunders, in keeping with his interest in the period, had found a site that looked like a building from a century before.
Another swoop, and Matt found himself standing in a shadowy virtual workspace. A huge half-moon window overlooked darkened, but definitely mean, streets. The traditional battered wooden desk stood in front of the window, just as it had for every movie detective from Sam Spade on. The walls of the office, however, rose three times the height of a man. They were completely covered with bookshelves holding everything from leather-bound volumes to tattered paperbacks. Matt squinted. Each book he focused on held the title of a famous mystery. High above, a ceiling fan revolved creakily, sending gusts of warm air down on Matt.
“And who are you?” a nasal voice inquired from behind him.
Matt turned around to find the one element that didn’t fit in this combination detective’s office and library. A tall, skinny guy now sat behind the desk. Lank blond hair fell across his high, pale forehead. A pair of washed-out blue eyes stared at Matt from behind wire-framed glasses. Ed Saunders — who else could it be? — wasn’t exactly up on the latest fashions. His shirt was a color that had never occurred in nature, and his bony wrists stuck out of too-short sleeves. Matt would have bet that the cuffs of Saunders’s pants were a tad short, too.
The storklike nerd behind the desk asked again, “And you are…?”
“Matt Hunter. In the sim, I’m—”
“Monty Newman, yes.” The sim creator looked even more like a bird as he cocked his head to one side. “I have to say, you’re a bit younger than I expected.”
Matt didn’t know how to answer that. His first step toward getting into the sim had been filling out a pretty comprehensive online questionnaire. Ed Saunders had asked about Matt’s knowledge of the mystery field, what historical eras he liked, and lots of personal data, including how old he was. Matt had entered his proper age. If stork-boy here couldn’t pay attention—
Right then another figure appeared in the office — a tall, thick, balding man who supported his massive weight on a thick ebony cane. A perfectly tailored black suit covered his bulk, and his face was square rather than jowly. But he was definitely a heavy man, the image of Lucullus Marten, reclusive private eye. In fact, he was the Lucullus Marten whom Matt worked with as Monty Newman.
A second later a tall, slender, hawk-faced man appeared. He also had a cane, a thin bamboo accessory which he leaned against negligently as his sharp blue eyes took in the room. “Milo Krantz,” he announced in a clipped voice.
An instant after that a couple popped into existence on the other side of the room. They, too, were dressed in 1930s finery. The man wore a tuxedo. He had a thin mustache on a good-humored face — except for a certain ruthlessness in his gray eyes. The woman wore a white silk evening gown, her short-cropped brown hair bobbing as she glanced inquisitively around.
Both raised martini glasses.
“Mick and Maura Slimm have arrived,” the man announced.
Matt nodded grimly. He’d read about the Slimms — and Krantz — in the sim’s New York Chronicle. The three of them were considered “society sleuths.”
Last to appear was a burly guy in a shabby trench coat. His tight pink face boasted a broken nose, and the big, hamlike hands sticking out from the coat’s sleeves had scars all over the knuckles. Matt had already encountered him in the sim — Spike Spanner, hard-boiled private eye. He’d been making the same rounds as Monty Newman, gathering information.
Spanner took in the scene around him with angry bloodshot eyes. “How come them bozos got a drink and the rest of us got nothing?” he demanded in a hoarse voice.
“We brought our own, darling,” Maura Slimm replied in a chirpy voice.
Spanner half-leaned against Ed Saunders’s desk, opening drawers. “There oughta be a bottle stashed someplace. Since you invited us here, you should offer us a drink.” He glanced at Matt. “None for the kid, though. Unless he can handle it.”
“You’ve met the young man,” Saunders said. “Although you know him as Monty Newman.”
The other participants in the sim stared at Matt until he felt as though he were standing in his underwear.
Lucullus Marten’s look was more like a glare. He was apparently angry with his erstwhile assistant for showing up as his real self rather than in the sim’s proxy appearance. Shrugging, Matt vocalized a command and turned into Monty Newman.
A little belatedly, he thought he realized why the others had all attended this meeting in their sim personas
. They didn’t want to give anything away to their competitors. Now it appeared that Lucullus Marten thought his chances of being first to solve the case had been hurt. The other players knew his legman was just a teenage kid instead of a thirty-something sophisticate.
Even Marten hadn’t realized that until this moment, Matt suddenly realized. Unless he’s been hacking into Saunders’s application files.
Maybe it was just as well he hadn’t known. The fat man was unbearable enough under normal conditions. If he now thought he had a reason to rag on Matt…well, the sim might just be a bit more complicated going forward.
Ed Saunders interrupted his thoughts. “Give up on the bottle, Spanner. I called this meeting because of a real-life problem. In the last two weeks I’ve received nasty letters from several lawyers — not ambulance chasers, but partners in big law firms. What you might call power brokers.”
“You mentioned somebody wanting you to cease and desist—” Matt began.
“Quiet, boy,” Lucullus Marten cut in. His colorless eyes bored into Ed Saunders’s face. “Why should anyone have a problem with this…harmless entertainment?”
“There are people who apparently don’t think it’s harmless,” Saunders said angrily. He hunched his shoulders, resting his hands on the desk. Much of his anger, it seemed, was aimed at himself. “I based this mystery scenario heavily on an actual case. I thought it was long enough ago that nobody would care.”
“You mean this was for real?” Spike Spanner growled. “Some rich dame actually got herself ground into chopped meat?”
Maura Slimm waved an empty martini glass at Saunders. “Naughty, naughty. We don’t know that yet — unless you were cheating?”
“Judging from the lawyers’ communications, you certainly miscalculated the amount of disinterest on the part of the affected parties,” Milo Krantz said in a dry voice. “That raises an interesting point. How was your work discovered? While it is of paramount interest to those of us here”—he gestured around the circle of make-believe sleuths—“your divertissement would not, I imagine, be well known in the wider world.”
“It made me wonder, too,” Saunders said grimly. “When the first letters came, I just kept my head down. Figured it might blow over. This latest letter explained a little more. The timing was just great. It came just after my bank called in my college loan.”
His gaze was accusing as he looked at the simulated sleuths. “It seems that somebody — most likely one of you — remembered or came across a reference to the case I was using. Then that somebody began hacking into sealed court records about the case. That set off some alarms in high places, and got the—”
Saunders bit off his words before he gave away the actual name. “It got a very important family — and their lawyers — on my back.”
“Hacking?” Spanner hooked his thumbs in his belt. “That kinda egghead stuff ain’t up my line.”
“I’m offended that you would include me in such insinuations,” Milo Krantz said.
“Maura and I just came along for the fun of it all.” Mick Slimm gave everyone a lazy smile.
“While I don’t appreciate your suspicions, I can understand them.” Lucullus Marten’s scowl grew thunderous. “I can assure you that I have taken no such actions.” He glanced at Matt. “Though I cannot necessarily claim to control the youthful enthusiasm of my associate.”
“Hey!” Matt angrily responded to the veiled accusation. “The only digging I’ve been doing has been inside the sim. You know that.”
“Unless,” Marten rumbled, “you dream of stealing the credit for this case from your own employer?”
“Shocking,” Krantz sniffed.
“I guess that’s what happens when you have to rely on everything coming to you second-hand.” Maura Slimm raised a perfect eyebrow as she looked at Marten.
“Maybe if you got off that fat duff of yours—” Spanner began.
Still hunched at his desk, Ed Saunders rubbed an obviously aching head. “I’d hoped that whoever was responsible would own up — and promise to stop.” He looked around at the circle of odd characters. “Obviously, that’s not going to happen with everybody here, and accusations and arguments will get us nowhere. So I’ll put it this way. Until the hacker contacts me — privately — and gives his word that all further hacking will stop, the sim stays down.”
He sighed. “With nothing to win, there shouldn’t be any reason for anybody to poke around in the real case.”
Leif Anderson shook his head as Matt told him about Ed Saunders’s meeting. “Sounds like your friend Saunders is hopelessly naive.” Leif stretched out on the Danish Modern Revival couch in his simulated living room. Most people created a one-room virtual space. Leif had gone for something bigger — a simulated Icelandic stave house, with ever-changing scenes in the windows. This visit Matt could see a volcano erupting in the distance. Knowing Leif, it was undoubtedly a full-scale, authentic recreation of some actual Icelandic volcano in action — and Leif had probably paid somebody well to provide the touch.
“What would you have done?” Matt was a little annoyed. But then, Matt had the reputation of being the crew’s straight arrow, and probably deserved it.
“I’d have avoided using a real case in the first place. Some lawyers spend their lives looking for trouble they can profit on. Failing that, I’d probably have let the sim go on — and kept an eye out for anyone trying to use information I hadn’t given them,” Leif said.
“Not so easy to wait for somebody to trip up with a bunch of lawyers and a bank breathing down your neck.” Matt scowled. “Not that you’d know how that feels.”
“Hah! Maybe I don’t have to worry about money, but I’ve had lawyers after me before for various things,” Leif replied, stung. “And you know it. I’m a fat lawsuit target. Being rich isn’t always a bowl of cherries all the time.”
“No, especially not if it means getting killed.” Matt frowned, obviously thinking about the case behind the mystery sim he’d been playing in. “It’s weird to think a girl actually died the way I heard about it in the sim.”
Leif looked at him knowingly. “And you’d like to find out more.”
“Maybe,” Matt admitted.
Leif’s smile grew broader. “So what brings you to Uncle Leif instead of an information-meister like David Gray?”
“Apparently asking questions about the case on the Net starts somebody’s spiderwebs jangling,” Matt said. “I figure the last thing my folks want to see is a ‘cease and desist’ letter from some lawyer.”
“And instead, you figure on checking out my knowledge of society gossip and scandal — even though the story may turn out to be ancient.” Leif couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “Guess I should be touched by your faith in me. But I warn you — even I get a little hazy once we get before the Girl on the Red Velvet Swing.”
Matt blinked. “The who?”
Leif sighed. “Sorry. Just showing off. It was a primo scandal in its day. All the elements — a showgirl turned society bride, fooling around with a famous society architect. Her husband was a rich psycho who shot the architect dead in front of a crowd — and still got off, thanks to his family’s money.”
“And this was when?”
“The Stanford White killing goes back to 1906. His killer, Harry K. Thaw, enjoyed catered meals from the best restaurant in New York City while he was in jail. He spent less than ten years in various mental institutions — and lived until 1947.”
“And how is this useful?”
Leif felt his face getting warm. “I told you I was showing off.”
Matt simply shook his head. “Let’s hope the death of this girl is a little more recent.” He began reciting to Leif the details he’d collected as Monty Newman.
“Priscilla Hadding.” The words burst out after Leif had listened for only a couple of minutes, interrupting Matt’s account. “It happened over in Delaware. Big news at the time. She belonged to an old-line society family. Got killed right before the debu
tante ball.” He nodded. “The police never figured out who dragged her to her death.”
“How long ago was this?” Matt wanted to know. “Delaware isn’t all that far away. And if a big political name was also attached to the case, it wouldn’t have just faded away.”
“This is Washington,” Leif reminded him. “Lots of scandals under the bridge since the Hadding case.”
He squinted up at the ceiling, trying to get his dates straight. “It happened way before we were born. Got to be more than forty years, now.” Bringing his gaze back to Matt, Leif shrugged. “Call it a lost chapter of the Callivant Curse.”
3
“The Callivant Callivants?” Matt asked numbly. Of course he knew the name. The Callivants were one of America’s great political dynasties, up there with the Tafts of Ohio and the Kennedys of Massachusetts.
Like the Tafts and Kennedys, the Callivants had given the nation senators and congressmen. Unlike those other dynasties, the Callivants had never succeeded in reaching the White House. Steve Callivant, the candidate the family had been grooming, had died in the Gulf War. His brother Will, a decorated veteran, had entered presidential primaries — and perished when his campaign bus overturned. The youngest brother, Martin, made a stab at the next presidential election cycle — only to have his bid cut short by a terrorist bomb.
The politics of tragedy seemed to dog the Callivants. Attempting to hide the effects of a stroke, Senator Walter Callivant had tried the experimental Patel Procedure. The controversial treatment had failed disastrously, leaving the senator wheelchair-bound. Riding on a wave of sympathy both for the senator and over Martin’s assassination, Walter’s son, Walter G. Callivant, had moved into his father’s Senate seat.
Matt had been aware of some of the media coverage there. Walter G. had turned out to be a patch of low comedy in the family tapestry. Although he tried to distinguish himself with the middle initial, people always called him Junior — or worse, Callivant Lite. He’d ended up a one-term wonder after six years of providing all too much material for the late-night comics.
