The Music of the Machine (The Book of Terwilliger 2)

by Michael Stiles

  Leonard’s right eye narrowed. The left one was already narrow. “Fine. There are specific documents we need. It’s my job to get you into the office. Then you do your job.”

  So breaking and entering would be a part of it. Ed felt himself growing increasingly nervous about all of this. “Whose office?”

  Now Leonard was clearly growing annoyed. “Kissinger’s. Geez, I thought you’d been briefed. We think he’s got documents that could be harmful to the President. Our job is to get those documents.”

  “Okay.” Ed needed to find out what exactly he would be asked to do. “So you get me into the office. Then what?”

  “Then you do your thing. Find the papers. Photograph them, put them back, and we get out.”

  Photography, then. He should be able to handle that. Ed ran a hand across his face, where a bit of stubble was starting to grow in. “Why would Kissinger want to hurt Nixon? Doesn’t he work for the President?” That there was friction between Kissinger and Nixon was hardly surprising to Ed; Mason had filled him in on the antagonism that the two men felt for one another. But he needed more information to avoid saying the wrong thing.

  “Kissinger works for himself. He’s a Yankee. Nixon’s a Cowboy.”

  Ed held up a hand to interrupt him. “You keep saying that. What does that mean?”

  “Yankees,” said Leonard, “are the East Coast ivy-league guys. Family fortunes and trust funds. Pro-establishment. They can be Republicans or Democrats; party doesn’t matter. What matters is how you think.”

  Ed recalled Mason saying something similar, once. “And Cowboys are―”

  “Self-made men. Businessmen who built their fortunes instead of receiving them as an inheritance. Howard Hughes, for example.”

  “The Spruce Goose guy?”

  Leonard gave him a withering look. “The Spruce Goose guy,” he repeated. “If that’s all you know about Howard Hughes…” Leonard exhaled deeply. “Hughes is a real American. He started an aircraft company, he’s made movies, now he owns practically half of Las Vegas. He’s the American Dream made flesh. A real Cowboy. In this country, everybody running the show is either one or the other. You either dream of being a Rockefeller or you dream of being Howard Hughes. You can’t be both. The same is true in politics. You can follow the Kissinger view of the world, which says peace has to be propped up so the Old Guard can keep their fortunes. That’s the way of Realpolitik and appeasement of tyrants. Or you go with the Nixon view: push back the frontier, beat the bad guys, then watch a football game and have a beer. Cowboys drink beer; Yankees drink martinis. You know what I mean?”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” said Ed, who had no idea what Leonard was talking about. He decided to bring the conversation back around to a subject that made sense to him. “So Kissinger has some kind of dirt on the President.”

  “No!” Leonard shook his head vigorously, causing his hair to come loose from his head. Ed watched in bewilderment as Leonard caught it and quickly stuck it back in place. He was wearing a wig. “You didn’t see that,” Leonard muttered as he glanced in a mirror to make adjustments. Little trickles of black smoke leaked out around the edges as he adjusted it.

  “I didn’t see anything.”

  “Nobody’s got anything on the President. Nixon is a straight player, nothing to hide. But Kissinger’s a true German, if you know what I mean. He’s been having his friends over at the FBI set up some wiretaps for him. Nobody knows how many people he’s recorded, but we think it’s a few dozen. John Ehrlichman called him on it and demanded that he hand over all the transcripts. Kissinger says he delivered all of them, but we think he’s holding some back.”

  Ed had not met John Ehrlichman, the President’s Assistant for Domestic Affairs, but he had read about him in Mason’s background summaries. Ehrlichman and Haldeman, the Chief of Staff, wielded a lot of power on the President’s behalf. Mason had insisted that the rift between Nixon and Kissinger was serious enough to tear the government apart, providing Urizen with a ripe opportunity to take advantage of the infighting.

  “And the tapes are in the office?” Ed asked.

  “No, no. There are transcripts in the office. The tapes are probably destroyed by now. All we need are the transcripts. We’ll take pictures of them, and then you can put them back before anyone knows they’re missing. Can you handle that?”

  “Sure,” Ed said absently. He was thinking about what other documents might be in that office. When he had eavesdropped on Charles Witherspoon’s memories, it had been evident that Kissinger knew something about the Novus project. If there was a chance of finding information that would help him locate Novus, then Ed would have to get inside and have a look. “How do you plan to get us in?”

  “It’ll be tricky. Kissinger and Al Haig usually stay in the office late. They don’t leave until eight or nine in the evening. Going in later than that might draw attention. But I happen to know they’ll both be out at an event Friday night. We should have long enough to get into the office and do the job. As long as Mulberry isn’t around.”

  Ed remembered hearing that name during the meeting that afternoon. “Who is Mulberry?”

  “One of Kissinger’s helpers. You don’t want to mess with Hank Mulberry.” The look on Leonard’s face said considerably more than his words.

  “All right, then we’ll have to watch out for him.”

  “No.” Leonard had turned slightly pale. “That won’t be enough. You haven’t seen this guy. If he catches you in that office, he’ll… he’ll…” He swallowed hard.

  “You just keep a lookout for him. I’ll work as fast as I can.”

  Leonard visibly pulled himself together. He wiped a trickle of perspiration from his forehead and adjusted his wig again. More of the oily black smoke dribbled out from his false hairline. “Friday night. I’ll meet you here at ten o’clock.”

  “Friday at ten,” said Ed.

  “Good. Be sure to rent a tuxedo.”

  Ed wasn’t sure he’d heard him right. “A tuxedo?”

  “That’s what I said. I’ll bring radios and a camera. You bring your supplies.”

  “Supplies. Right.” Ed pursed his lips and looked up at the ceiling. “What kind of supplies do you suppose we’ll need?”

  Leonard’s eye went a little wide. “Supplies. Hell, I don’t know what you use. Sandpaper, stethoscope, all that crap. You do have supplies, don’t you?”

  “Sure,” said Ed. “Of course I do. I’ll bring them.” It dawned on him that Leonard didn’t want him to take pictures. He wanted him to break into a safe. What had he gotten himself into?

  “You’ll have no more than fifteen minutes to crack the combination,” said Leonard. “Then another thirty to take pictures and put everything back. If you screw it up, it’ll be life in prison or a bullet in the head. So don’t screw it up.”

  25

  Shenanigans

  “You did what?”

  Ed removed the telephone receiver from his ear and held it several inches away. He had seldom heard Mason raise his voice. “It was a misunderstanding,” he said. “Somehow they came to think I was some kind of CIA safecracker. I had to play along, or―”

  “And what do you plan to do when the real CIA man shows up?” Mason demanded.

  Ed hadn’t thought about that. In truth, he hadn’t had much time to think about anything since arriving in Washington. He’d been operating in what Tom Kajdas would have called an “ad hoc fashion.”

  “My instructions were to keep a low profile,” Jonathan said, barely containing the anger in his voice. “And now you’ve―”

  Ed didn’t really mind being shouted at. Eleanor had yelled at him quite often when they’d been married, and Sarah was capable of raising her voice now and then. People eventually grew tired of shouting, and then you could start to communicate with them.

  “I’m sorry to upset you,” said Ed. “But I think this is a good thing. If I can get into Kissinger’s papers, I might be able to find out who Urizen
is, or what happened to Novus.”

  “Or you might get yourself arrested. I can’t help you if that happens. Mr. Bush can’t help you either.”

  “Then I’ll just have to take the risk.”

  There was a brief silence on the line. Ed heard Jonathan take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “All right. I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this. Just don’t do any more stupid things. If you do see anything about Novus, read it but don’t remove it. I can’t afford to have you tip our hand. But you’re leaving out an important question. How are you planning to get into the safe?”

  Ed had already given that some thought. “I’ve got a plan.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Mason said. “Let’s just hope it’s not an idiotic one.”

  * * *

  “Anyway,” said Driscoll, “Jonathan took me there for dinner, and he was right. They really do make a wonderful potatoes au gratin at Old Hickory. Best potatoes au gratin in the District.”

  “I don’t like potatoes au gratin,” said Ed.

  “That’s because you haven’t been to Old Hickory.”

  Ed adjusted his mustache, which continued to look crooked no matter how many adjustments he made.

  “Stop messing with it,” Driscoll said, trying to hide his smile. “It’s going to come off.”

  Leonard Garbanzo had provided some simple disguises—a couple of false mustaches that resembled gargantuan woolly-bear caterpillars, a pair of thick glasses with black frames, and a hideous brown wig. They had played a quick game of rock-paper-scissors, best of three, to determine which of them would have to wear the wig. Driscoll had lost, so he’d put on the wig while Ed wore the glasses. Ken had never worn a disguise during his tenure at the FBI—agents at the Bureau were above those kinds of CIA shenanigans—and he felt absolutely ridiculous.

  “You look ridiculous,” Ed said, as if reading his thoughts.

  “Shut up. So do you.” Driscoll stifled a sneeze; he had been sneezing quite a bit this evening.

  A woman walked past them, leading a little girl by the hand. The mother noticed Driscoll and Ed, gave them a deeply suspicious look, and ushered her daughter quickly to the ticket window.

  “See?” Ed whispered. “You stand out like a sore thumb in that wig.”

  “I think I’m allergic to this mustache,” Driscoll said. He sneezed twice more in quick succession. “Why are you looking at me funny?”

  “No reason.”

  Wayne Monroe had done some snooping and had learned that there were exactly four men who knew the combination to Kissinger’s safe. Kissinger himself was constantly surrounded by people and would be difficult to get close to. His deputy, Alexander Haig, was equally inaccessible. That left his two assistants, Mulberry and Milligrew. Mulberry was, in Wayne’s estimation, someone Ed had better leave alone.

  “Vince Milligrew is your best bet,” Wayne had said. “He’s a loner, no family, lives by himself and doesn’t have a lot of friends. He mentioned to Al Haig this afternoon that he’ll be going to see a movie tonight—The French Connection. That’s your chance to get close to him for a couple hours.”

  Driscoll was still not sure of what Ed planned to do. He had watched as Ed had delved into Witherspoon’s mind, and what he intended to do tonight was similar to that. Wayne had not known which show Milligrew planned to attend, so they had been waiting at the corner for quite some time.

  “Most new memories are stored in clusters,” Ed told Driscoll as they waited, “like thickets of trees. But numbers are different. When someone memorizes a number, they put it in an organized place in the brain. I used to notice it when I explored people’s minds. I’d fly over miles and miles of wild forest, and then suddenly there would be a perfectly flat area with straight rows of memories, like a field that’s been plowed and planted. But the number I’m looking for is secret, so it’ll be in a spot that’s hard to reach. So I have to look for a well-protected place that’s highly structured. From there, it’s just a matter of sorting through a lot of numbers to find the set I want. You get it?”

  “Uh-huh,” Driscoll replied.

  “But I have to be close to him to do it. If I know someone well, I can locate their mind easily. If I don’t know them, I have to see them, actually be nearby so I can follow the sparks.”

  Driscoll listened to all of this, nodding politely. He still did not understand how such things could exist inside someone’s head. A brain was an organ, made of squishy gray tissue. It wasn’t a world where forests could grow. But Ed seemed to know what he was talking about, so Driscoll didn’t express his doubts.

  “I wonder how many people have sweated in this wig.”

  “At least you can see,” Ed grumbled. “These glasses are like Coke bottles. Does that thing keep your head warm?”

  Ken sneezed again. “It’s strange. I’ve never been allergic to anything in my life.”

  “Shush,” said Ed. “Here he comes.”

  A tall man was walking toward them, back straight and head held high. His gait was that of a military man. His hair was an extremely light blond, almost white. Even before Driscoll could see his face clearly, he recognized the man from the picture Monroe had shown him. Milligrew went straight to the window, bought a ticket, and went inside.

  “Let’s go,” said Driscoll. He and Ed left the shadows and went up to the window.

  “Two for French Connection,” said Ed.

  “Three dollars,” said the man in the ticket booth.

  Ed immediately looked at Driscoll, who sighed and took out his wallet. “You need to contribute once in a while,” Driscoll muttered. “I’m unemployed.”

  “So am I.”

  Ed stopped short as soon as they entered the theater lobby. Driscoll had to sidestep to avoid a collision. “Ed, just act normal. There’s no reason for him to notice you unless you act all funny.”

  “Can you see him?” said Ed. “I can’t see a damn thing through these glasses.”

  “He’s buying popcorn. Stop fidgeting. You look like you have to go to the bathroom. Okay, now he’s heading into the theater. But… hang on.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Driscoll double-checked the sign over the doorway. “That’s not The French Connection. He just went into Willy Wonka.”

  Ed squinted through his thick lenses at the sign. “Maybe he got confused.”

  They went inside. The opening credits were already playing, shown against a backdrop of candy being made. Milligrew was sitting near the back of the room, which made it tricky to sit close to him without being seen. They settled for a pair of seats in the back corner, two rows behind their target and five seats to the left. Driscoll was grateful for the darkness, which allowed him to scratch his itching head without being noticed.

  Ed took a small spiral notepad and a pencil from his pocket and handed them to Driscoll. “I’ll need to write down some numbers,” he said. Then he went immediately to work doing whatever it was he did. He looked straight ahead; his eyes remained open, but his consciousness was elsewhere. Driscoll pretended to watch the film for the next few minutes. Then Ed suddenly jerked upright in his seat, which creaked quite loudly. Milligrew looked around, agitated, before returning his attention to the picture.

  “His color is dull green,” Ed whispered. “Olive green.” Driscoll didn’t understand what that meant. “I found a spot where he keeps his secrets,” Ed continued. “It’s on a mountaintop, hard to get to. Wind makes it hard to move around up there.”

  “Did you find anything?” Driscoll asked, whispering directly into Ed’s ear.

  “I didn’t get in yet. Have to find an easier way. How long was I gone?”

  “Less than five minutes. I think he noticed something was happening.”

  Ed nodded. “Might be longer this time. Watch him and poke me in the ribs if there’s a problem.” Then he was gone again.

  In the movie, a boy named Charlie Bucket met a strange old man who said of Wonka’s factory, “Nobody ever goes in. Nobody ever comes ou
t.” Driscoll kept facing the screen, but his eyes darted every so often to glance at Milligrew. After several minutes of watching the man, he realized that Milligrew was doing the same thing that Driscoll was doing: his head was oriented toward the movie screen, but his eyes were watching something else. He was holding a bag of popcorn, but had not eaten a single piece.

  Milligrew suddenly convulsed in his seat and let out a startled grunt, as though he’d been bitten by a bug. At the same moment, Ed returned to his body and blinked several times.

  “What happened?” said Driscoll.

  Ed glanced over at Milligrew, who was just settling back into his seat. “He’s prepared himself for intruders. I’m going in as quietly as I can, but he can tell something’s wrong. I almost got all the way to the inner garden this time.”

  “Well, hurry up and get inside,” Driscoll said irritably. The movie was grating on his nerves, especially the ugly little factory-workers with orange skin. “I can’t watch those orange gnomes much longer.”

  “Not gnomes,” said Ed. “Oompa-Loompas.” His eyes went unfocused again as he resumed his effort.

  Driscoll strained his eyes in the dark to see what Milligrew was looking at. Then he saw them, sitting near the front: the woman and little girl he had seen outside. The girl’s hair was so light that it stood out in the dim light of the theater. She was young, perhaps five years old. The mother was leaning over to comfort the girl, who was fidgeting and seemed to be afraid of the creepy orange men on the screen. Unless Driscoll missed his guess, Milligrew was on a surveillance mission of his own, and those two were his targets.

  Ed was gone much longer this time. Driscoll watched Milligrew; Milligrew watched the woman and the girl. Every now and then he twitched and looked around as though he could feel the stranger looking around inside his thoughts.

  Twenty minutes went by. Ed was sweating and his fingers were moving as though he was trying to grasp something. Then, as Violet Beauregarde was transformed into a giant blueberry on the screen, Ed jerked suddenly and his eyes came back into focus. He motioned urgently for the pad and pencil, which Driscoll handed over, and began writing numbers as rapidly as he could. “Forty-four,” he whispered as he wrote. “Seven. Twenty-six.” He scribbled numbers in sets of three or four, gradually slowing down until he could no longer remember any more. When he was finished, there were seven groups of numbers on the paper.