Chapter 20
In the morning, David told Colonel Jankowsky about his meeting with Vern Consiglio. He concluded with “... Obviously I had to tell you, Sir.”
“You did the right thing, David. In the military we have a chain of command. We don’t go working on the outside for civilians, no matter how much we believe in their cause. You proceed as normal. I’ll feed you some more case files, hopefully easier ones than you’ve had so far, and you just do your job. I’ll have to kick your information upstairs, of course.” He paused, apparently noting the worry in David’s mind. He added: “That’s the chance the Vern Consiglios take when they try to outsmart the system and use junior officers. I understand it’s very sensitive information and it will stay in Tony Tomasik’s chain of command.”
David opened a stack of five case files. A mess unit at the Composite required a certification inspection, and he’d have to locate the military health inspector to get him in on it. A senior NCO at a motor pool had phoned in a tip that his company XO and two fellow NCO’s were stealing expensive tools; David kicked that one over to CID. And so it went, until the desk phone rang. It was Tory. “David, can you come over here, like right away? I’m at my old office at Observatory Circle.”
“What is it?” Her hushed, explosive whisper gave him a chill.
“Jet’s found something.”
“I’ll call you from the car.” Leaving word with a secretary, he hurried outside, pulled his car out with screeching tires, and drove toward the Naval Observatory. The sky was a mix of sunshine and gray cotton clouds. He had to turn on the windshield wipers two or three times to clear away accumulating drops from a rain he couldn’t see falling. The tires sang on wet asphalt as he pulled up the observatory drive and parked under a big tree. His feet crunched on the road surface as he walked toward the NSSO building. Tory and Jet hurried to meet him, both wearing raincoats. Tory’s dark hair bunched up in the wind, and Jet’s lank hair flew. Tory said: “We were just checking to see everything got moved to the Atlantic Hotel. Jet was poking around in the net--”
He followed them back into the building, left and right through the short zig zag hallways designed to make life harder for anyone not familiar with the layout, like a spy or an intruder. “In here,” Tory said opening a door, “it’s soundproof. There are cameras in the ceiling, so turn away from them and nobody can read your lips later on film.” She laughed nervously. “Aren’t we getting paranoid?”
They were in the Secure Room. “Ib loved this place,” Jet said.
“Wow,” David said, getting his first close look at the behemoth he’d only glimpsed during his earlier visit. He stared with greedy curiosity at the fifty-ton, burnished-steel egg, with chrome-plated rivets, mounted in a heavy concrete base painted red, that was CloudMaster. No time to ogle now. “Go on,” David encouraged.
Jet handed him goggles like he’d worn the other day. “We’re going to play back Ib's last paths. Ib covered his tracks very well. He could have fooled a lay person or even another head walker, but I know some of his tricks. Here we go, Sir. This is recorded, so don’t try to do anything. No turns, no walking. Just hang on tight.” David held a sissy bar as they followed Ib’s tracks on the spoor of a European hacker. “Ib destroyed the paperwork, and he hid the work disk in a common area so it could have been the work of any of us at NSSO. I finally figured out where Ib stashed his records.” Jet had turned on her seldom-used icon, a slender waif in a dark jump suit, right out of the 25th Century or someplace. David’s path of vision followed the icon’s appealing figure into a tall wire-frame meant to look like a high-rise. They descended staircases into the earth, all gray except for the red railing that spelled danger. They came to a door, and the waif made a waving motion. The door opened, and they stepped into what looked like a storeroom. A sign on the wall read: “Ib’s Klub House. Keep Out.” In a fit of humor, the old Coast Guardsman must have pixeled the drawing that occupied one corner--of an easy chair, a table with a beer and a book, and a raccoon-tail hat on a peg. A cigarette smoldered in an ashtray. The waif touched a switch in the wall. Instantly, Ib’s likeness appeared in the easy chair. He smiled and waved. The big belly, the swollen ankles, the double chin were well rendered. “He has a good sense of humor,” Jet said. “Here is the trip disk.” The waif stood prettily on tiptoe before a bookcase. Its finger scanned from left to right, and then pressed a certain book. Instantly the scene changed. “We’re following Ib’s footsteps now, Sir. Through various net city neighborhoods. That is, data addresses. Archives. The phone company. The power company. Banks. Stores. He was chasing a Dutch hacker named Salty who got into the power company’s files, then a bank’s.”
“That’s what he told me when I first met him.”
“That’s right, Sir. Now we know where he went and what he did. We may be able to dig up that list of names yet.”
“Have you been in there, Jet?”
“Nossir, I’m afraid to get too close. Afraid I might destroy evidence.” She added: “Worse yet, leave a personal trace, and end up with a target on my back.”
David watched the icon of an old sailing ship rotate in the air of a huge bank lobby. The ship’s cannon boomed. Jet speeded up the record. “Blink your eyes, Sir. We’ll be there in a second.” David followed a blinding blur of light and motion. Then they were standing still in what looked like a train station. It was Grand Central under the ground, he thought; only from high windows did harsh sunlight stab inside and lose itself into smoky darkness. And in the darkness stood huge drums. Kiosks, he thought. “They’re called carousels,” Jet said. “This is the city’s emergency data recovery archive. The carousels are just representations; the real things are huge wafer disks in a cold room. There must have been a brownout the night the Vice President died.”
David was intrigued. “Why do you say that?”
“Watch,” Jet said. David felt Tory’s fingernails biting into his shoulder as the three of them followed the last steps before Ib’s discovery of the secret that would result in his disappearance. Inside one of the shadowy carousels, Ib appeared to be browsing around. The insides were covered with thousands of tiny written labels organized into columns, each column further divided into squares. Ib focused on a column labeled Directory Z. “Carousel 49, Directory Z,” Jet said. “Now watch before we go in.” A bunch of information displayed--numbers and text, flashing busily. The waif pointed to a date amid the data. “See this? It’s the night the Vice President died, a half hour before his death.”
“Oh wow,” David said as the proof of Ib’s discovery began to hit home. Tory’s fingers dug into him as she whispered: “David, it’s the most important part! The proof! That address hasn’t been touched since Cardoza’s death. Nobody could fake that.”
“I checked,” Jet said. “There was a browndown minutes before Cardoza was killed. This message was on its way to the VP mansion, there was a browndown, and it got sucked into here instead. Under normal conditions, as soon as the browndown was over, which might be in a few seconds, the messages get barfed back up into the net, and they go to their destinations like nothing happened. Only nobody bothers to erase the emergency archive. So the data stay there, until months or years later, when there’s a future power failure, and it’s this carousel’s turn in the cycle to be overwritten. Ib made sure he merely copied what’s in Directory Z, without a Save that would put a more recent date in the processing registers.”
“If only I’d believed him sooner,” David said. He felt dark piano keys of fear banging in his soul.
Chapter 21
Maxie called as David drove home. “Would you like to share dinner with us?”
“Sure. If you don’t mind that I’m hungry and tired.”
“Hungry we can fix. Tired I’m not sure.”
He stopped briefly at home and changed into casual clothes including clean black sweats. When he arrived at their apartment not long after, Tory offered him a glass of wine. They made small talk as she straightened some t
hings and they drifted toward her bedroom. Her bedroom door was open and he waited in the doorway--the room seemed neat, but not too neat. Some books were out of place. Three bears sat on the bed, facing different ways. A hair brush, a cologne spray with the top beside it, a crushed tissue with lipstick on it, lay on the middle of her vanity. The bed was freshly and tightly made. An Army duffel bag peeked from a half-open closet, black padlock anything but feminine. The aquamarine-and-black checkered deck shoes she’d worn to his house sat against the wall, one toe overlapping another as though someone pigeon-toed had worn them. A row of dresses peeked from a closet, tasteful but comfortable.
David joined the two women for a light dinner. From a half-open patio door, the kitchen air cooled sweetly, smelling of leaves and grass. They were all tired and ate quietly. They felt comfortable together, bonded by the Army and a dozen less tangible realities. Maxie played hostess, passing dishes around. She’d made a salad with good things in it, tomatoes, bits of ham, cheeses, chickpeas, a light dressing. He’d kicked off his shoes, following the women’s cue, and wiggled stocking feet in the thick carpet.
Maxie broke the relaxed silence. “Must be the night for sweats.” She wore sweat pants and a loose white T-shirt that barely hinted at girlish breasts. Tory wore light blue sweats and an olive green T-shirt; she was nearly as tall as David, and more statuesque than waifish Maxie. “Next time we can coordinate,” Tory said stifling a laugh, exchanging a look with Maxie. Then Tory’s dark, serious eyes focused on David. There is electricity in the air this evening, David thought, feeling its subtle and persistent charge invigorate him like a cleansing and exhilarating halo of good ions. If it was a conspiracy, it was a sweet one; if it was dark, it was velvety, meant to envelop in good feelings. He let the two women snare him in their plot. He remembered how at home Tory had felt a few days ago at his place, and returned the compliment. “You have a nice place here. I feel right at home.”
“Thanks,” Tory said. “Do you like to play Monopoly?”
Maxie rolled her eyes up. “Oh no, that’s like when I was a kid.”
“It’s not so bad. It’s cheap, you don’t have to go anywhere, and you don’t wake up with a hangover.”
David grinned. “It’s been a while since I played Monopoly, but I used to really like the game. I used to drive my sisters crazy because I’d put up all these hotels and they’d land on them--”
“That’s it,” Maxie said, “he feels at home because we’re his sisters.”
“Believe me,” he said, “one lifetime growing up with sisters is plenty. No, I don’t think of you that way.”
“Friends,” Maxie said, extending a hand. He shook her hand, then extended his hand to Tory. She shook, too, with a giggle. “Pals,” she said. Then she told Maxie: “Nice dinner.”
“Yes, nice dinner,” David said, taking his plate to the sink. Tory stretched wide, yawning long. He took that as a hint. “Well, I’d better be moseying along.”
“Oh no!” both women said at once. Maxie said: “I’ve got to run to the store. Won’t you stay with her and guard the house just that long?”
“I have enough energy for one game of Monopoly,” Tory said.
He shrugged. “Sure.” As the Monopoly board appeared on the table, he tried to remember if you had to buy three houses on each square of a color before you could buy a hotel. He wondered if they put $100 in the pot to start out. Maxie had her shoes and coat and was headed for the door, mittens in one hand and pocket book swinging on its long sling. “I’ll see you guys later!”
“Bye,” Tory chimed, closing the door. She turned to David. “How about a nice glass of wine?”
“Sure, but I’m tired and a glass of wine might just knock me out.”
“Why don’t you rest? Come in the living room and I’ll fix a few cushions for you.”
“Shall I bring the game?”
“If you wish.”
He didn’t hear a great enthusiasm in that reply, but he picked up the game, careful not to spill the pieces through its torn cover. He set the game down on the living room floor. She brought a wine bottle and two crystal glasses. She set a vase of red flowers on an end table and turned the lamp above the vase down low. He wondered how they would play the Monopoly game in fifteen watt light, but then again he still had that sixth sense of a velvet conspiracy. Tory lit a fire in the fireplace, using briquettes and small chunks of hardwood. Instantly the room took on a faint smoky aroma that reminded him of walks in the autumn woods long ago with his mother and father, and nights when the fireflies still glowed but the first hint of freshness was driving the summer laziness out of the early darkening air. He lay propped on a series of cushions facing her. She eased onto one elbow, facing him. Her eyes glittered with messages obscure and urgent. He would take his time, because she was giving him all night. It was a delicious stretching out of something wonderful, like--he smiled inwardly at a funny thought, and she must have seen him light up. “What’s so funny?”
“Oh, I was just remembering something, don’t know exactly why. When I was a kid, taking a long time to unwrap a candy bar, enjoying the thought of how good that candy bar was going to be, trying to stave off each bite as long as possible. Including the first bite.”
“Do you still do that?” She pulled a blanket over her legs.
“Which, the first or the last bite?”
“All of what you said.” She pulled another blanket over her back.
“I think so. Only with really good things.”
“Really, really good things?”
“Really, really, really good things.”
“Maybe you could explain a little more closely.”
“Do you mind if I sit close so I can explain better?”
“Oh, please do. I can’t wait to learn all about this.”
He nudged himself across the two or three feet of shag. “Well,” he said, setting his wine glass down on the brick footing of the fire place, “Maybe it would be best if we used a, you know, an example.” He took her hand.
“A ferinstance.” She held his hand, pulling lightly.
He nudged closer, heart pounding in his collar, mouth dry in sweet anticipation. “Yes, that’s it. Well said.” He smelled her hair, her faint perfume or soap.
Firelight flickered on her face. “I don’t think I’ve had one of those really, really, really good things in a long time, David, before I met you.”
“Here’s one now,” he said and bent down to kiss her. Her hands rose and he felt the coolness of her fingertips as she guided his cheeks close. Her mouth was ready for him, warm, wet, moving as her hands closed around the back of his head, as her fingertips dug hungrily into his hair. Her breath came in gasps. She half-turned, thrusting her hip against his. He sighed deeply and surrendered with fast-beating heart. “You didn’t offer me a blanket,” he said. “I was wondering if you wanted me to be cold.”
“Oh no,” she said sincerely, “I was planning how I could get you over here under the blankets with me.” She pushed him aside just an inch or two, enough to pull more blankets over.
“Did you plant those there?” he whispered, raking her cheek with kisses. He could see the pulse beating fast in her neck, and he kissed the throbbing little spot. She lay back. Her eyes glittered in firelight as she stole her free arm around his waist. Her expression was hungry, and she closed her eyes as he leaned forward to kiss her on the mouth again. His fingers stole about, feeling soft spots everywhere, playing up and down her curves. His fingertips found the border of her T-shirt and crawled underneath up the flat of her belly until they reached the firm strap of a sports bra and the sudden curve of one breast, then the other. They were delightful to the touch, firm, each a full handful, the cotton bra a flimsy thing barely in the way. She writhed against him, and her fingertips racing among his vetebrae as if searching for all the switches that would make him tingle.
And tingle he did, as all his cares fell away. He heard a distant car swish by, saw the movement of headlights
on the ceiling, painting languid shapes of light that fled like manta rays. In this otherworldly, underwater fantasy of fleeting shapes and stopped time, David felt himself tempted by a rousing passion.
She threw the blankets back. “This candy bar is going to melt.”
“This one’s not melting at all,” he said, aware of himself.
“Come with me.” She rose and offered a hand.
“What about--”
“Didn't she say she was going shopping to Florida? Don't worry.”
He put his arm around her waist, and she put hers around his waist, as they went to her bedroom, each carrying a half empty glass of wine. She put on soft music; something classical, very Debussy--La Mer, the Sea, textures gliding over and around and through one another like the surfaces of a shifting sea. As she stepped to the window, tugging at a shade, he stepped behind her and put his hands on her waist. Gently, he turned her, and she turned in his arms. They resumed their kiss in a languid embrace, as if in a dance together. He held the long curves of her torso, felt her flat belly against his. His fingers explored the thick drawstring in her sweatpants. It was elastic, and gave as he tugged. He felt her fingers working on him. In a moment, he felt the cool night breeze on his buttocks. His hands roved down her back, glided around her rear. Her hands brazenly and sensuously enveloped his most delicate parts. He groaned, turning up his face as she lost all fear and bathed him in the honesty of her needs and wants, her desires. With a near-awkward dance, she stepped out of her panties. They sank onto the bed together locked in an embrace.
The Generals of October Page 15
