“My first night on the job,” Harry answered.
“You ever done this before?”
“Oh, yeah,” Harry answered, lying through his teeth. “I like to think of it as being a social director.”
“The locals are okay,” the guard told him. “They don’t cause trouble. But we’re seeing some real weirdos lately.”
“They’re showing up all over,” Harry said.
“If some asshole causes trouble inside, get him out back if you can. We can solve any problem real quick—if there’s no witnesses around.”
Harry gave him his best grin. “I solve my own problems. I like to think of it as a professional challenge.”
“Yeah!”
Harry ambled into the club and headed for the office to check in and receive any last minute instructions. He knocked twice and heard a “Come on in.” He pushed open the door and entered. “Harry,” the manager said, “I like you to meet the principal owner.” Harry turned around. August Ramar, the thug Toni had made in Reno was sitting on a couch. A blond dancer was cuddled next to him, his hand on her bare thigh.
“Glad to meet you, sir,” Harry said, extending his right hand. Ramar stared at him with the coldest dead-fish look he had ever seen.
6:12 P.M., Saturday, June 5,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.
Toni Moreno stood by the fax machine as it spat out page after page of the message from FinCEN, the Treasury’s Financial Crimes Enforcement Network. The amount of detailed financial information on the Jeffersons astounded her, and she wished Harry was there to help her read through the mass of material. She stuck out her lower lip and exhaled loudly.
“Someone’s working overtime here,” Sutherland said from behind her.
She turned and smiled. “I requested this five days ago.” Sutherland managed to do the math in his head. Five days ago meant she requested the file on the first day she had arrived at Whiteman. “I wonder how long before they come through on Cooper?”
“You requested a readout on Cooper today?” Sutherland asked.
“Right after we talked about it.” She spread the pages out on the table and tried to make sense out of the report. Sutherland stood beside her, feeling like a conspirator because they were working so late. Toni started to list the outstanding balances on the numerous credit cards Sandi Jefferson used. “She’s got credit cards with every upscale store in Kansas City.”
“Been doing research in the field?” Sutherland asked.
Toni shook her head. “Look at the names. But the balances are hardly worth mentioning.”
“So she doesn’t use them,” Sutherland replied.
“Or she pays them off every month.”
Sutherland grinned. “That would make me a very happy husband.”
“Is that what makes husbands happy?”
Sutherland blushed. The conversation was not going in the direction he wanted. “It helps.”
Toni scanned another page. “Look at what she charged at one store in one month!”
Sutherland checked his sheet. “And she paid it off in thirty days.” They repeated the process with four other credit cards with the same results. “The lady is living well beyond her husband’s salary,” Sutherland said.
“So where’s the money coming from?” Toni asked.
“Check with the IRS,” Sutherland told her. “They might have a clue.”
“I doubt if anyone is working overtime there.”
“Leave it for Monday.” He checked his watch. “Look, it’s after eight and we gotta eat sooner or later. There must be some place worth going on a Saturday night.” He paused. “Even in Warrensburg,” he added lamely.
Toni thought about the rules. “Can I take a raincheck? I’m absolutely beat and I’ve got to call my family in California.”
Sutherland gave her his best lopsided grin. “Well, see you Monday.”
7:06 P.M., Sunday, June 6,
Over the Persian Gulf
The unmarked C-130 lifted off from the airport at Bandar Abbas, Iran’s main port city, and climbed over the Persian Gulf. “Murray,” the American captain of the Hercules said, “I think our passenger speaks English. Ask him if he wants to come up on the flight deck.” The scrawny Englishman grunted and unstrapped from the flight engineer’s seat that was set back and between the pilots.
“I’m not sure General Assam would approve,” the copilot said.
“His ’oliness’ ain’t here to disapprove, now is he?” Murray muttered. He considered the copilot a complete waste of time and wished Assam would hire a competent copilot to help fly the C-130. Luckily, the American pilot was capable of getting along with minimal help. Murray climbed down the ladder onto the cargo deck and worked his way past the cargo they were hauling from Tehran to the Sudan. The cargo hauls had become a frequent part of their routine but the unscheduled landing at Bandar Abbas to pick up a passenger was a first.
“Excuse me, mate,” Murray said to the man, “the captain asked if you wanted to come up on the flight deck.”
Victor Kamigami nodded and followed the Englishman. He climbed easily over the cargo and Murray was surprised at the man’s catlike speed and grace. “Glad we’re friends, mate,” he muttered. Kamigami glanced at the Chinese markings on the crates. He spoke Cantonese, but could not decipher the labels. He climbed the ladder and stood on the flight deck behind the flight engineer’s chair.
The American pilot turned around. “It’s more comfortable up here.” He motioned to the bench at the rear of the flight deck that doubled as a bunk.
“Thank you,” Kamigami said. “May I stretch out?”
“Sure,” the pilot replied. “American?” Kamigami nodded and collapsed on the bunk. Within moments, he was sound asleep.
“Who is he?” the copilot asked.
“Beats the shit out of me,” the American said. “But he must be important for us to divert into Bandar Abbas. I’m surprised the Iranians let us land there.”
“General Assam is a very important man,” the copilot parroted.
“Bloody important,” Murray muttered. The copilot missed the cynicism in his voice. Kamigami slept soundly until they started the descent into El Obeid where an aqid, a Sudanese colonel, was waiting for their arrival. “Ain’t he the bloke we brought in with Assam about three weeks ago and got left behind?” Murray asked.
“He was in charge of the American prisoners,” the copilot said.
“With all that fuckin’ baggage,” Murray muttered, “it looks like he’s going on an extended vacation. No way in bloody hell am I gonna hump that lot aboard.” He directed the two soldiers accompanying the colonel to load the baggage while he kept an eye on Kamigami. The colonel studiously ignored Kamigami and marched purposefully onboard the waiting Hercules.
A Range Rover drove up and Capt. Davig al Gimlas got out.
“General Kamigami, welcome to El Obeid. I’ll escort you to your quarters.”
Murray watched as Kamigami and al Gimlas shook hands. They were of equal height, but he guessed Kamigami outweighed al Gimlas by eighty pounds. “Wouldn’t want to get between those two,” he muttered to the copilot. The copilot snorted, totally misunderstanding the Englishman. “Come on, then,” Murray said. “Let’s get this lot to the flippin’ laboratory.”
Al Gimlas held the Range Rover’s rear door for Kamigami and then climbed into the front seat. “According to my instructions,” al Gimlas said, “you are now in charge of the prisoners’ security. Needless to say, the aqid is most upset.” Kamigami only nodded and they rode in silence. When they reached the barracks he asked to see the wreckage of the B-2. Al Gimlas spoke a command in Arabic and the driver headed for a large warehouse on the edge of town. “We have a great deal of wreckage,” al Gimlas explained, “but it is burnt and unrecognizable.”
Kamigami walked through the warehouse, nudging an occasional lump of melted or twisted debris with his foot. “Those are engines,” he said. Then, “That is part of the rotary launcher.” He poi
nted to another pile of debris. “That is part of the cockpit.” He picked up a lump of material that looked like a blackened cement I-beam. But it was much lighter in weight. “This is what the fuselage is made of. Have your men start arranging the debris in the shape of a B-Two.”
“I doubt if they can do that,” al Gimlas replied.
“I’ll help them.”
“Is this important?”
“It is if you want to convince the public.”
“Our people believe what we tell them,” al Gimlas said.
“It’s not your people you’ve got to convince,” Kamigami explained. “The only thing that’s going to save us from being hit, and hit hard, by Delta Force, a battalion of Rangers, and God knows what else, is public opinion. Tell me about the prisoners.”
“I have them isolated in separate cells,” al Gimlas said. “They are recovering from wounds.”
“Were they tortured during interrogation?”
“Only when Assam was here,” al Gimlas answered. He stared straight ahead, not looking at Kamigami. “But the situation has changed, and I am under pressure to, ah, extract their confessions. If I cannot do it, Assam will send an interrogator with drugs.” His face hardened. “I have seen drug interrogation. It burns their brains.”
“I can help you,” Kamigami said, his words barely audible. “Without drugs. Rig a cell for electronic surveillance. Have two sets of monitors, one well hidden and one more obvious. When the time is right, we’ll put them together in the cell. Sooner or later they will start to talk. Americans love to talk.”
“But will they talk about the right things?”
Kamigami allowed a slight smile.
8:30 A.M., Monday, June 7,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.
Hank Sutherland walked into the legal offices an hour late. He had only meant to run two miles, but had gone four. That had put him behind schedule and he had delayed even longer, taking a leisurely shower. The exercise was doing wonders and he hadn’t felt so good in years. He smiled at Linda, the secretary, and headed for the military justice corridor and his office. Someone had tacked up a countdown calendar with a big 35 on the door leading into the corridor. Thirty-five days to go, he told himself. We’ll be ready.
Blasedale joined him a few minutes later with her organizer and two thick case files. “Who put up the countdown calendar?” he asked.
“Toni,” Blasedale replied. “She’s really a hustler and was here when I got to work. How was the run?”
“Doin’ better all the time.” She sat down and they went over the day’s schedule. He paused, thinking. The case was coming together and he felt good. “I think we’re going to be okay on this,” he allowed.
Blasedale gave a little snort. “Don’t count on it. Some bastard will screw it up. I’ve got to get back to work.”
Before she could leave, Toni knocked on the open door. “Sergeant Rockne is here to see you,” she said. The Rock was standing behind her, his dark blue beret clutched in his left hand. As usual, his uniform was immaculate and his boots buffed to a high gloss.
“What can I do for you, Sergeant?”
The Rock stepped inside and shifted his weight nervously from foot to foot. He glanced at the door, a plea for privacy. Blasedale closed the door. “Sir, it’s about”—he twisted his beret in both hands—“Capt. Jefferson. He’s, ah, he’s—” He stopped, unable to go on.
“He’s what? Sergeant.” Sutherland braced himself for bad news.
The Rock regrouped, his embarrassment acute. “I’ve been taught, and I believe, to always go with the evidence. But—” Again, he hesitated. “I’ve run a confinement facility for nine years and I’ve seen a lot of prisoners.” He paused, searching for the right words.
“Go on,” Sutherland urged.
The Rock drew himself up, ramrod stiff. “Capt. Jefferson is innocent, sir.”
For five seconds, silence ruled Sutherland’s office. Toni shook her head, wondering if she had heard right. Sutherland stared at the big sergeant, his mouth slightly open. Finally, Blasedale and Sutherland answered together, their voices a high-pitched chorus. “He’s what?”
“Capt. Jefferson is innocent.”
Sutherland managed to choke “Evidence.”
The Rock shook his head. “I don’t have any. But I’m telling you, he didn’t do it.”
“An extraordinary statement, Sergeant,” Sutherland replied, sarcasm searing every word. “Perhaps, you’ve seen the burning bush? The handwriting on the wall? Or perhaps you experienced a visitation?”
The Rock shook his head. “I read the Bible, Captain. That’s not necessary.” The tone of his voice carried an admonishment. “Capt. Jefferson has a deep faith in his God, his country, and the Air Force. Guilty men don’t. If that’s all, sir, I need to get back.”
“Thank you for coming in,” Sutherland said, dismissing him. The Rock nodded brusquely, spun around in a well-executed about-face, and marched out of the office.
Again, a heavy silence came down. “If that don’t beat all,” Blasedale said in a low voice.
“Do you think there’s anything to it?” Toni asked.
“Always go with the evidence,” Sutherland answered. But the vague itchy feeling had returned, gnawing at the back of his mind.
16
8:40 A.M., Wednesday, June 9,
The Farm, Western Virginia
Agnes had shut herself off and the whiz kids were worried. “We just don’t know why,” their leader said. “That’s the trouble with what we’re doing. The results will be unpredictable.” She was repeating a mantra of their profession and they all nodded in agreement. “I suppose we can revert to keyboarding, but that would defeat the purpose of what we’re doing.”
“Since you programmed her to respond to me,” Durant said, “let me talk to her. Maybe I can find out what’s wrong.” Lacking any other ideas, the whiz kids agreed. “Maybe, I better do it alone.” They followed him to the control room and stood outside in the hall when he went in. “Good morning, Agnes. How are you?” There was no answer. “Okay, what’s the problem?”
The right monitor screen came to life but no image appeared. “Nothing,” the computer said.
“Come on,” he urged, “something’s bothering you.” He found it hard to remember he was dealing with a computer. Agnes’s image appeared on the screen. “There. That’s better. Why did you shut yourself off?”
“No reason.”
“There’s always a reason,” he cajoled. “Or maybe two reasons.”
Agnes looked at him. “That’s right. There are two reasons.”
“Can we talk about them?”
“Well,” Agnes said, “remember when you asked me to find out who leaked the information about the B-Two to Meredith?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, I couldn’t.”
Durant nodded. Agnes had not been taught how to deal with failure and she had simply turned herself off. “Actually, you discovered something very important,” Durant said. “You found that there was no trace of the leak. So that tells us the leak was between two people who met face to face, in private, and no one knew about it.”
“Oh.” The image brightened. “I can do something about that. You remember how I found Mr. Rios and the San Francisco bombers? I can build another matrix and do it again.”
“It’s probably not worth wasting your time on,” he replied. “At best, you’d only have a probability, and how good will that be?”
“At least it’s something.”
“What’s the second problem?” Durant asked.
“I overheard two of the whiz kids talking. They talked about ‘pulling the plug.’ At first, I didn’t know what that meant. Then I discovered there is a switch where they can turn off my power. Does that mean they can kill me if they want to? Since I’m not a person, it’s not a crime. I don’t want to die.”
I’m talking to a teenager, Durant thought. “Because you’re a computer, Agnes, you can’t die. Wh
at happens to a computer’s memory and programs when it is shut off then turned back on?” He could almost hear the wheels turning as Agnes ran through her information on chip dynamics.
“Oh. It’s like being in suspended animation.”
“Exactly,” Durant replied. “I’ve got work to do and need to go. Will you keep monitoring the situation in the Sudan and talk to the kids?”
“Of course,” Agnes answered.
Durant walked into the hall and explained it all to the whiz kids. “Fortunately, she didn’t ask why the switch was there in the first place,” one of them said.
“She didn’t ask because she knows,” Durant replied.
9:30 A.M., Friday, June 18,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.
In the abstract, Catherine Blasedale always gave lip service to the venomous effects of envy. However, she steadfastly refused to recognize any such symptoms in herself. Consequently, when Toni entered her office that morning, she dismissed the younger woman as being a bit overdressed and her miniskirt a little too short to be in truly good taste. “Twenty-four days to go,” Toni said, “and I’m drawing a blank from the IRS on the Jeffersons. She owned a business but sold it when they married. According to the IRS, it was mortgaged to the hilt, some bank in Canada. Apparently, she lost money and got a tax refund.”
“Was it enough to account for their lifestyle?”
“It was less than a thousand dollars.”
“So where is the money coming from?” Blasedale asked.
“A good question. So far, we don’t know.”
“What about Cooper?”
Toni shook her head. “You’re not going to believe this. But it looks like he’s representing Jefferson pro bono.”
“I want to see Hank’s face when you tell him that,” Blasedale said. The two women walked down to his office and stood in the doorway. Sutherland was on the telephone and waved them inside. His eyes did a subtle double-take on Toni. Men! Blasedale fumed to herself.
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