The Queen's Own FBI Trilogy: Brain Twister; The Impossibles; Supermind

by Mark Phillips

  He sighed again and leaned back in his chair. He put his feet up on the desk, remembered that he was entirely alone, and swung them down again. He fished in a private compartment in his top desk drawer, drew out a cigar and unwrapped it. Putting his feet back on the desk, he lit the cigar, drew in a cloud of smoke, and lapsed into deep thought.

  Cigar smoke billowed around him, making strange, fantastic shapes in the air of the office. Malone puffed away, frowning slightly and trying to force the puzzle he was working on to make some sense.

  It certainly looked as though something were going on, he thought. But, for the life of him, he couldn't figure out just what it was. After all, what could be anybody's purpose in goofing up a bunch of calculators the way they had? Of course, the whole thing could be a series of accidents, but the series was a pretty long one, and made Malone suspicious to start with. It was easier to assume that the goof-ups were being done deliberately.

  Unfortunately, they didn't make much sense as sabotage, either.

  Senator Deeds, for instance, had sent out a ten-thousand-copy form letter to his constituents, blasting an Administration power bill in extremely strong language, and asking for some comments on the Deeds-Hartshorn Air Ownership Bill, a pending piece of legislation that provided for private, personal ownership, based on land title, to the upper stratosphere, with a strong hint that rights of passage no longer applied without some recompense to the owner of the air. Naturally, Deeds had filed the original with a computer-secretary to turn out ten thousand duplicate copies, and the machine had done so, folding the copies, slipping them into addressed envelopes and sending them out under the Senator's franking stamp.

  The addresses on the envelopes, however, had not been those of the Senator's supporters. The letter had been sent to ten thousand stockholders in major airline companies, and the Senator's head was still ringing from the force of the denunciatory letters, telegrams and telephone calls he'd been getting.

  And then there was Representative Follansbee of South Dakota. A set of news releases on the proposed Follansbee Waterworks Bill contained the statement that the artificial lake which Follansbee proposed in the Black Hills country “be formed by controlled atomic power blasts, and filled with water obtained from collecting the tears of widows and orphans."

  Newsmen who saw this release immediately checked the bill. The wording was exactly the same. Follansbee claimed that the “widows and orphans” phrase had appeared in his speech on the bill, and not in the proposed bill itself. “It's completely absurd,” he said, with commendable calm, “to consider this method of filling an artificial lake.” Unfortunately, the absurdity was now contained in the bill, which would have to go back to committee for redefinition, and probably wouldn't come up again in the present session of Congress. Judging from the amount of laughter that had greeted the error when it had come to light, Malone privately doubted whether any amount of redefinition was going to save it from a landslide defeat.

  Representative Keller of Idaho had made a speech which contained so many errors of fact that newspaper editorials, and his enemies on the floor of Congress, cut him to pieces with ease and pleasure. Keller complained of his innocence and said he'd gotten his facts from a computer-secretary, but this didn't save him. His re-election was a matter for grave concern in his own party, and the opposition was, naturally, tickled. They would not, Malone thought, dare to be tickled pink.

  And these were not the only casualties. They were the most blatant foul-ups, but there were others, such as the mistake in numbering of a House Bill that resulted in a two-month delay during which the opposition to the bill raised enough votes to defeat it on the floor. Communications were diverted or lost or scrambled in small ways that made for confusion-including, Malone recalled, the perfectly horrible mixup that resulted when a freshman senator, thinking he was talking to his girlfriend on a blanked-vision circuit, discovered he was talking to his wife.

  The flow of information was being blocked by bottlenecks that suddenly existed where there had never been bottlenecks before.

  And it wasn't only the computers, Malone knew. He remembered the reports the senators and representatives had made. Someone forgot to send an important message here, or sent one too soon over there. Both courses were equally disturbing, and both resulted in more snarl-ups. Reports that should have been sent in weeks before arrived too late; reports meant for the eyes of only one man were turned out in triplicate and passed all over the offices of Congress.

  Each snarl-up was a little one. But, together, they added up to inefficiency of a kind and extent that hadn't been seen, Malone told himself with some wonder, since the Harding administration fifty years before.

  And there didn't seem to be anyone to blame anything on.

  Malone thought hopefully of sabotage, infiltration and mass treason, but it didn't make him feel much better. He puffed out some more smoke and frowned at nothing.

  There was a knock at the door of his office.

  Speedily and guiltily, he swung his feet off the desk and snatched the cigar out of his mouth. He jammed it into a deep ashtray and put the ashtray back into his desk drawer. He locked the drawer, waved ineffectively at the clouds of smoke that surrounded him, and said in a resigned voice: “Come in."

  The door opened. A tall, solidly-built man stood there, wearing a fringe of beard and a cheerful expression. The man had an enormous amount of muscle distributed more or less evenly over his chunky body, and a pot-belly that looked as if he had swallowed a globe of the world. In addition, he was smoking a cigarette and letting out little puffs of smoke, rather like a toy locomotive.

  "Well, well,” Malone said, brushing feebly at the smoke that still wreathed him faintly. “If it isn't Thomas Boyd, the FBI's answer to Nero Wolfe."

  "And if the physique holds true, you're Sherlock Holmes, I suppose,” Boyd said.

  Malone shook his head, thinking sadly of his father and the cigar. “Not exactly,” he said. “Not ex—” And then it came to him. It wasn't that he was ashamed of smoking cigars like his father, exactly, but cigars just weren't right for a fearless, dedicated FBI agent. And he had just thought of a way to keep Boyd from knowing what he'd been doing. “That's a hell of a cigarette you're smoking, by the way,” he said.

  Boyd looked at it. “It is?” he said.

  "Sure is,” Malone said, hoping he sounded sufficiently innocent. “Smells like a cigar or something."

  Boyd sniffed the air for a second, his face wrinkled. Then he looked down at his cigarette again. “By God,” he said, “you're right, Ken. It does smell like a cigar.” He came over to Malone's desk, looked around for an ashtray and didn't find one, and finally went to the window and tossed the cigarette out into the Washington breeze. “How are things, anyhow, Ken?” he said.

  "Things are confused,” Malone said. “Aren't they always?"

  Boyd came back to the desk and sat down in a chair at one side of it. He put his elbow on the desk. “Sure they are,” he said. “I'm confused myself, as a matter of fact. Only I think I know where I can get some help."

  "Really?” Malone said.

  Boyd nodded. “Burris told me I might be able to get some information from a certain famous and highly respected person,” he said.

  "Well, well,” Malone said. “Who?"

  "You,” Boyd said.

  "Oh,” Malone said, trying to look disappointed, flattered and modest all at the same time. “Well,” he went on after a second, “anything I can do—"

  "Burris thought you might have some answers,” Boyd said.

  "Burris is getting optimistic in his old age,” Malone said. “I don't even have many questions."

  Boyd nodded. “Well,” he said, “you know this California thing?"

  "Sure I do,” Malone said. “You're looking into the resignation out there, aren't you?"

  "Senator Burley,” Boyd said. “That's right But Senator Burley's resignation isn't all of it, by any means."

  "It isn't?” Malone sa
id, trying to sound interested.

  "Not at all,” Boyd said. “It goes a lot deeper than it looks on the surface. In the past year, Ken, five senators have announced their resignations from the Senate of the United States. It isn't exactly a record—"

  "It sounds like a record,” Malone said.

  "Well,” Boyd said, “there was 1860 and the Civil War, when a whole lot of senators and representatives resigned all at once."

  "Oh,” Malone said. “But there isn't any Civil War going on now. At least,” he added, “I haven't heard of any."

  "That's what makes it so funny,” Boyd said. “Of course, Senator Burley said it was ill health, and so did two others, while Senator Davidson said it was old age."

  "Well,” Malone said, “people do get old. And sick."

  "Sure,” Boyd said. “The only trouble is—” He paused. “Ken,” he said, “do you mind if I smoke? I mean, do you mind the smell of cigars?"

  "Mind?” Malone said. “Not at all.” He blinked. “Besides,” he added, “maybe this one won't smell like a cigar."

  "Well, the last one did,” Boyd said. He took a cigarette out of a pack in his pocket, and lit it. He sniffed. “You know,” he said, “you're right. This one doesn't."

  "I told you,” Malone said. “Must have been a bad cigarette. Spoiled or something."

  "I guess so,” Boyd said vaguely. “But about these retirements-the FBI wanted me to look into it because of Burley's being mixed up with the space program scandal last year. Remember?"

  "Vaguely,” Malone said. “I was busy last year."

  "Sure you were,” Boyd said. “We were both busy getting famous and well known."

  Malone grinned. “Go on with the story,” he said.

  Boyd puffed at his cigarette. “Anyhow, we couldn't find anything really wrong,” he said. “Three senators retiring because of ill health, one because of old age. And Farnsworth, the youngest, had a nervous breakdown."

  "I didn't hear about it,” Malone said.

  Boyd shrugged “We hushed it up,” he said. “But Farnsworth's got delusions of persecution. He apparently thinks somebody's out to get him. As a matter of fact, he thinks everybody's out to get him."

  "Now that,” Malone said, “sounds familiar."

  Boyd leaned back a little more in his chair. “Here's the funny thing, though,” he said. “The others all act as if they're suspicious of everybody who talks to them. Not anything obvious, you understand. Just worried, apprehensive. Always looking at you out of the corners of their eyes. That kind of thing."

  Malone thought of Senator Lefferts, who was also suffering from delusions of persecution, delusions that had real evidence to back them up. “It does sound funny,” he said cautiously.

  "Well, I reported everything to Burris,” Boyd went on. “And he said you were working on something similar, and we might as well pool our resources."

  "Here we go again,” Malone said. He took a deep breath, filling his nostrils with what remained of the cigar odor in the room, and felt more peaceful. Quickly, he told Boyd about what had been happening in Congress. “It seems pretty obvious,” he finished, “that there is some kind of a tie-up between the two cases."

  "Maybe it's obvious,” Boyd said, “but it is just a little bit odd. Fun and games. You know, Ken, Burris was right."

  "How?” Malone said.

  "He said everything was all mixed up,” Boyd went on. “He told me the country was going to Rome in a handbasket, or something like that."

  Wondering vaguely if Burris had really been predicting mass religious conversions, Malone nodded silently.

  "And he's right,” Boyd said. “Look at the newspapers. Everything's screwy lately."

  "Everything always is screwy,” Malone said.

  "Not like now,” Boyd said. “So many big-shot gangsters have been killed lately we might as well bring back Prohibition. And the labor unions are so busy with internal battles that they haven't had time to go on strike for over a year.” “Is that bad?” Malone said.

  Boyd shrugged. “God knows,” he said. “But it's sure confusing as all hell."

  "And now,” Malone said, “with all that going on—"

  "The Congress of the United States decides to go off its collective rocker,” Boyd finished. “Exactly.” He stared down at his cigarette for a minute with a morose and pensive expression on his face. He looked, Malone thought, like Henry VIII trying to decide what to do about all these here wives.

  Then he looked up at Malone. “Ken,” he said in a strained voice, “there seem to be a lot of nutty cases lately."

  Malone considered. “No,” he said at last. “It's just that when a nutty one comes along, we get it."

  "That's what I mean,” Boyd said. “I wonder why that is."

  Malone shrugged. “It takes a thief to catch a thief,” he said.

  "But these aren't thieves,” Boyd said. “I mean, they're just nutty.” He paused. “Oh,” he said.

  "And two thieves are better than one,” Malone said.

  "Anyhow,” Boyd said with a small, gusty sigh, “it's company."

  "Sure,” Malone said.

  Boyd looked for an ashtray, failed again to find one, and walked over to flip a second cigarette out onto Washington. He came back to his chair, sat down, and said, “What's our next step, Ken?"

  Malone considered carefully. “First,” he said finally, “we'll start assuming something. We'll start assuming that there is some kind of organization behind all this, behind all the senators’ resignations and everything like that."

  "It sounds like a big assumption,” Boyd said.

  Malone shook his head. “It isn't really,” he said. “After all, we can't figure it's the work of one person: it's too widespread for that. And it's silly to assume that everything's accidental."

  "All right,” Boyd said equably. “It's an organization."

  "Trying to subvert the United States,” Malone went on. “Reducing everything to chaos. And that brings in everything else, Tom. That brings in the unions and the gang wars and everything."

  Boyd blinked. “How?” he said.

  "Obvious,” Malone said. “Strife brought on by internal confusion, that's what's going on all over. It's the same pattern. And if we assume an organization trying to jam up the United States, it even makes sense.” He leaned back and beamed.

  "Sure it makes sense,” Boyd said. “But who's the organization?"

  Malone shrugged.

  "If I were doing the picking,” Boyd said, “I'd pick the Russians. Or the Chinese. Or both. Probably both."

  "It's a possibility,” Malone said. “Anyhow, if it's sabotage, who else would be interested in sabotaging the United States? There's some Russian or Chinese organization fouling up Congress, and the unions, and the gangs. Come to think of it, why the gangs? It seems to me that if you left the professional gangsters strong, it would do even more to foul things up."

  "Who knows?” Boyd said. “Maybe they're trying to get rid of American gangsters so they can import some of their own."

  "That doesn't make any sense,” Malone said, “but I'll think about it. In the meantime, we have one more interesting question."

  "We do?” Boyd said.

  "Sure we do,” Malone said. “The question is: how?"

  Boyd said: “Mmm.” Then there was silence for a little while.

  "How are the saboteurs doing all this?” Malone said. “It just doesn't seem very probable that all the technicians in the Senate Office Building, for instance, are spies. It makes even less sense that the labor unions are composed mostly of spies. Or, for that matter, the Mafia and the organizations like it. What would spies be doing in the Mafia?"

  "Learning Italian,” Boyd said instantly.

  "Don't be silly,” Malone said. “If there were that many spies in this country, the Russians wouldn't have to fight at all. They could vote the Communists into power, and by a nice big landslide, too."

  "Wait a minute,” Boyd said. “If there aren't so ma
ny spies, then how is all this getting done?"

  Malone beamed. “That's the question,” he said. “And I think I have an answer."

  "You do?” Boyd said. After a second he said: “Oh, no."

  "Suppose you tell me,” Malone said.

  Boyd opened his mouth. Nothing emerged. He shut it. A second passed and he opened it again. “Magic?” he said weakly.

  "Not exactly,” Malone said cheerfully. “But you're getting warm."

  Boyd shut his eyes. “I'm not going to stand for it,” he announced. “I'm not going to take any more."

  "Any more what?” Malone said. “Tell me what you have in mind."

  "I won't even consider it,” Boyd said. “It haunts me. It gets into my dreams. Now, look, Ken, I can't even see a pitchfork any more without thinking of Greek letters."

  Malone took a breath. “Which Greek letter?” he said.

  "You know very well,” Boyd said. “What a pitchfork looks like. Psi. And I'm not even going to think about it."

  "Well,” Malone said equably, “you won't have to. If you'd rather start with the Russian-spy end of things, you can do that."

  "What I'd rather do,” Boyd said, “is resign."

  "Next year,” Malone said instantly. “For now, you can wait around until the dossiers come up-they're for the Senate Office Building technicians, and they're on the way. You can go over them, and start checking on any known Russian agents in the country for contacts. You can also start checking on the dossiers, and in general for any hanky-panky."

  Boyd blinked. “Hanky-panky?” he said.

  "It's a perfectly good word,” Malone said, offended. “Or two words. Anyhow, you can start on that end, and not worry about anything else."

  "It's going to haunt me,” Boyd said.

  "Well,” Malone said, “eat lots of ectoplasm and get enough sleep, and everything will be fine. After all, I'm going to have to do the real end of the work, the psionics end. I may be wrong, but—"

  He was interrupted by the phone. He flicked the switch and Andrew J. Burris’ face appeared on the screen.

  "Malone,” Burris said instantly, “I just got a complaint from the State Department that ties in with your work. Their translator has been acting up."