by Buck Sanders
Rubbing the bald spot on his head, Winship looked over at Slayton. “I’m sorry, this must be terribly confusing to you, but please bear with me. Can we get some coffee up here yet?”
“The cafeteria is open. Want some?” Slayton got up from his seat.
Winship motioned for him to remain. “No, no, I’ll get it. Sugar?”
“Of course.”
“Meanwhile, set up the opaque projector and look at this.” He passed a small roll of 35-mm film to Slayton on his way out the door.
The room darkened, and Slayton viewed the film, a positive reversal contact sheet apparently meant for reduction to microdots. Mostly names and dates, the sequence was meaningless to Slayton. Halfway through the roll, he came upon this:
090 SEQUENCE A
SAM7 to Pond 1 11/13/80
SAM7 to Pond 2 1/14/80
SAM7 to Pond 1 2/22/81
011 SEQUENCE B
RPG7 to Pond 3 12/12/80
RPG7 to Pond 1 12/9/80
Underneath, scrawled in grease pencil in tiny lettering, was another sequence, in code:
Playpen Opens 3/7, Eratepo WDC
In addition, Slayton could make out a detailed list of what might be shipping bill numbers, or purchase order data, followed by the phrase TANGO NEWOR, which also appeared to be an obscure code.
Swinging open the outer office door, Winship was already talking. “I do believe the ’sequence A and B’ are operation code names for a massive weapons shipment. I can only guess at the rest. The computer suggests we “input more data,’ but you know those damned machines. Damned uncooperative.”
Handing Slayton a steaming cup, Winship continued, eyeing the projection screen, “There is consistency between the Pond Ones and the Pond Threes and something that comes up later.”
The film was advanced to the next frame. It read:
VZ 61.No Code
Refer ahead to Pond 1, Chicago
Refer ahead to Pond 3, WDC
“It’s not Coded,” surmised Winship, “but it sets up a corollary for what comes next.”
Slayton rolled the film ahead. Appearing was:
Pond 1- 3000 units
Pond 2-14000 units
Pond 3- 40 units
“The message refers to guns,” chirped Slayton, “but where’s the key?”
Winship’s voice hinted a sudden grimness. “We don’t know. The rest of the roll was destroyed. It was part of a series of supposedly decoded intelligence reports smuggled out of China and delivered to Ambassador Son Quo Park of South Korea. The film we have now is an enlargement of seventeen microdots arranged and encased in two aluminum paper clips reinforced with a thick metallic lacquer.”
Slayton interjected, “Park was murdered the other night, correct?”
“The killer was looking for the film, but Park was clean. The paper clips were sewn into the lining of his coat.”
“Why don’t we have the entire roll?”
“Three frames were destroyed. Park’s body was set afire when the assassin could not find the evidence he or she was after. We salvaged what we could of the film.”
“Hmmmm, the SAM7’ must refer to the Soviet’s surface-to-air missile with infrared guidance. RPG’ is another Russian weapon, not terribly effective. But who could be fencing 14,000 SAM7s out of Russia? And may we assume from this inventory that 3,000 SAM7 and RPG7 rocket launchers are lying in someone’s basement in Chicago?”
Winship raised one eyebrow, intoning, “That’s the sort of question you’re very good at answering.”
“But where do I look in Chicago? Are there any leads?”
No reply came. The overworked, harassed career administrator reopened the window curtains and trudged back to the desk. Opening the top drawer, he removed a two-inch-thick pile of loose papers and dropped them in Slayton’s lap.
Slayton turned off the projector. “Is this your first novel, Ham?”
“You don’t have to read this CIA intelligence report right now,” came the scornful answer. “In essence, we sent two operatives overseas in early 1979. One ducked behind the Iron Curtain and infiltrated a Russian military surveillance part in Siberia. The other followed an obscure lead that a group of American mercenaries had created a terrorist training camp in western China. Our agent spent six months at the camp and discovered, much to our surprise, that the Soviets were paying them to educate Arab revolutionaries on the latest weapons technology. The Siberian outpost was the transfer point for arms and electronics. When both agents collated enough evidence, they were to have high-tailed it to Peking and stowed away across the China Sea to Japan.”
Examining the file, Slayton said, “According to this, only one man escaped.”
“Agent Belogorsk safely returned to the United States only last week, carrying this brief. He explains the Soviets’ method of transferring weapons across the Chinese border—not the easiest thing to do, considering how much the two countries hate one another.”
Slayton referred to the stack of paper. “What about the Chinese agent?”
“Unfortunately,” Winship sighed, “he was captured in Peking a few days after Belogorsk slipped through. Our intermediary in Hong Kong received the microdots from a Red Chinese national who’d apparently accompanied our man from the western provinces. It was an alternative plan that worked, thank God. Son Quo Park received the paper clips containing the microfilm last Tuesday, but the unknown terrorist group no doubt got wind of our agent’s capture. They followed the film to Park.”
“We know nothing of the terrorists’ identity?”
“Only that their arsenal encompasses an unheard-of spectrum, from Makarov pistols to sophisticated rocket launchers such as the SAM7. Belogorsk’s report makes considerable mention of an American crew supposedly in charge of this subversive group. Since they all used code names while dealing with the Soviets, it’s impossible to confirm identities.”
“But you’re certain they are operating in the States?”
“Almost certain.” Winship crumpled the paper coffee cup and missed a shot to the round file. “This enlargement of the microfilm is our only clue. The dates and number of weapon units are designated by code-word Pond’—Pond 1 is Chicago, Pond 3 is Washington, no doubt. There’s only one reference to Pond 2, but its location is not revealed. Make note of that, Ben; Pond 2 received the largest shipment of arms.”
“And the story about these memos from Conklin and Donovan?”
Winship skimmed a hand over that bald spot again, stooping to pick up the scattered messages. “There’s no explanation for that, at least not yet.”
“You said something about an investigation?”
“Oh yes, yes,” Winship shot back, bracing his leg with one arm as he straightened up. “Two senators, Parfrey and Beducci, were murdered last night under bizarre circumstances: Parfrey’s head was blown off by an explosive hidden in a telephone receiver; Beducci was killed much in the same manner as Son Quo Park. I’d say there’s connection between those killings and the terrorist threat from China. The Justice Department agrees, but several colleagues of the late senators feel any inquiries at this time would waste the taxpayers’ money.”
Slayton evaluated the situation. “When do I leave for Chicago?”
“Later this morning, if I can get a hold of anyone with the authority to cosign the orders.”
Thinking of Maximillian Parrish and a relaxed fishing weekend made Slayton twist in his chair. “I gave up a beautiful woman and two days of fun and frolic on the ocean with my best friend for this, y’know.”
Winship smiled for the first time since Slayton arrived. “All in the line of duty,” he said.
A rumbling noise echoed across Washington, alerting the two men; they both took for granted it was a bomb. They scampered to the window as a cloud of smoke rose into the air near the Potomac River.
“Good heavens,” said Winship, “what do you suppose that was?”
“Incendiary explosion?” Slayton strained his eyes to determi
ne its origin. “Is there any construction going on down there?”
“I didn’t notice any driving in yesterday.”
The phone was again ringing insistently. Winship acknowledged a message and hung up, reaching for his overcoat. “Let’s move. There’s been an explosion inside the Lincoln Memorial!”
4
It was a five-minute ride from the Washington Post newsroom to the scene of the bombing. Wilma Christian, the Northwestern University journalist major from whom the editors were expecting Pulitizer Prize-caliber reporting, sped down Constitution Avenue in her Corvette, ignoring red stoplights and anything else in her way.
After three or four more wake-me-ups in the company of Maximillian Parrish (the booze warmed her up for the morning, but a throbbing headache dulled her senses), he had agreed to drive her into town.
“Ben will fool you with his harsh exterior,” he had said, pulling to the curb fronting Wilma’s Georgetown apartment. “But I can tell when he’s really hooked on someone.”
She had thanked him for the lift. “I know, there’s the seed of a great relationship somewhere in him. But he has yet to commit to anything.”
“Keep trying,” Parrish had said, shifting his GM truck into reverse to maneuver around a parked car. “You’ll get satisfaction if ya hang in there.”
As he drove away, she had made a mental note, Sure, I get satisfaction, but when do I get my reward? Parrish confirmed what she had always suspected, that Ben Slayton had a warm, soft heart. Unfortunately for her, it was buried under a ton of confidence, regret, and pride.
Why was she thinking of such things on the short drive down Constitution Avenue, toward the scene of a spectacular explosion at the Lincoln Memorial? It didn’t make sense. She had her job to do, too, and nothing, even Ben Slayton, could substitute for that.
Television reporters were already lined up behind the police cordon, their mini-cams cranking out instant coverage to millions of early morning boob-tubers. The Memorial was still intact, contrary to initial accounts of severe damage, although the central portal was smoldering, a bit charred; the interior black as coal.
Government officials were starting to swarm over the scene as Wilma parked her car three blocks away. She rushed to one group of long-faced Secret Service men, pressing them for a comment, but instead receiving a grim warning to “stay away.” She made her way through the crowd. Amateur sleuths milled about, snapping Instamatics and offering their own interpretations of the bombing.
Wilma pushed through the crowd to the front of a police blockade. The explosion was not devastating enough to destroy the statue of the sixteenth president, although two marble columns appeared severely damaged. Gray fumes continued to pour out, caking the ceiling near the east portal, occasionally blowing into the crowd and stinking of sulfur.
“You’ll have to stay back, ma’am.” A boyish-looking policeman blocked Wilma’s path. She wanted to get a close look at the Memorial interior.
“Press,” she said, flashing her press pass card.
The policeman didn’t seem impressed. “I can’t let you through just yet. They haven’t cleared away the debris.”
“What debris?” she asked, followed by a rapid-fire, “When did this occur? Is there any evidence of terrorist involvement? Can I have a comment?”
The ploy worked. The officer blinked—confused, unable to respond. “Wait here, I’ll get the lieutenant.” Wilma slipped past the barrier as the young man went off to look for his supervisor.
In the distance, she caught the tail end of a conversation between two technicians in white coats loading a massive, thick-walled container on the back of the trailer truck. “…can’t see how the mixture was ignited,” wondered the first technician aloud.
“They obviously utilized secondary fuses,” replied the other man as Wilma approached them.
“Excuse me,” she said, “I’m with the Washington Post; could I ask you some questions?”
They looked at one another, blank expressions receding into friendly grins. The second technician pointed up to the portal and said, “They can help you.”
She gazed behind them, through the entrance to the east section, and saw an elderly gentleman holding a small particle of metallic plating outstretched against the sun. Behind him, emerging from inside the Memorial, was Ben Slayton. Wilma stood beyond their line of vision, shielded by a section of pink marble pillar.
“This plating,” said the older man, as Wilma stretched forward to catch their conversation above the din of the crowd, “was held in place against the wall, positioned in line with the first explosion.”
Slayton conjectured, “The heat from the blast must’ve been tremendous to…” Two women near Wilma began crying loudly, cutting through Slayton’s voice and disturbing her reception.
After a moment, the older man disappeared into the Memorial, leaving Wilma free to rush up to Slayton. “What happened, Ben?”
He led her away by the arm. “We don’t know yet, and this is a restricted area.”
“Look, no one’s commenting on anything. Can’t you tell me just a little bit?”
“I’m not at liberty—”
She cut in, adopting a typical newswoman’s stance, “The public has a right to know.”
Slayton remained quiet.
Continuing, she was adamant. “This building belongs to the people.”
“We can’t comment officially until the lab boys dust everything and formulate a professional opinion.”
“Come off it, Ben, don’t you have any opinions?”
Slayton looked helpless. “No comment.”
“Okay,”she conceded, “when can I know?”
A throng of arm-waving reporters gathered on the south wall of the building. Placing a hand on Wilma’s shoulder, Slayton directed her toward them. “Join your colleagues. I think the lieutenant is holding a press conference.”
She scampered off, leaving Slayton to help a group of technicians remove another load of debris.
“We have no confirmation that this was the work of terrorists,” said Lt. Daniel T. Clarke, holding up his arms to silence an eruptive cacophony of reporters’ questions. “No one has as yet claimed responsibility for the act.”
Wilma got off the first inquiry. “Do you deny the involvement of terrorists?”
Clarke did a slow burn. “I just answered that.”
Another question: “Who is conducting the investigation?”
“The Washington PD, the special bomb squad, the Treasury Department, the—”
Someone interrupted loudly, “Why is the Treasury Department here?”
“No comment.”
Another question: “If it was a bomb, was there any structural damage to the Memorial?”
Clarke rolled his eyes. “No substantial damage.”
“Did you say no damage?”It was Wilma.
“Yes, I said no damage.”
And so it went. Reporters asked a variety of pertinent questions mixed in with ridiculous ones (“Where did you get the coffee in your hand, Lt. Clarke?“). For Wilma, all it added up to was a sketchy profile of what had occurred, very little acknowledgment from authorities (par for the course), and absolutely no help from Ben Slayton.
Winship studied the Memorial’s interior south wall. The stone was covered with a blend of carbon residue and a sootlike tarnish. The explosive, a nondestructive combination of gases and weak gunpowder, made one hell of a noise, but did little else, other than turn Lincoln’s statue jet black. What remained of the explosive pack lay scattered across the floor, and the plating which held the bomb unit against the marble was scorched and detached in several pieces. Winship held a fragment in his hands. It reminded him of a stencil—letters were cut out and placed in sequence two feet from the bomb. Once the explosion sent condensed heat onto the plate, a tremendous amount of pressure left impressions on the marble.
Permanently embossed directly beneath Lincoln’s statue were the words:
STOP US IF YOU DARE
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Under that, in smaller, imperfectly burned characters,
S NTA AS B G DE
Winship was approached by Slayton and Dr. Stewart Llewellyn, senior science officer for the Treasury Department. Llewellyn, in his’ mid-forties, with whitening hair and a Holmesian pipe, inhaled and puffed frantically while piecing together a possible motive.
“An extremely professional job,” he said with free-spoken puzzlement. “The message makes no sense.”
Winship coughed. “That is for me to decide. What about the explosive?”
“Quite unlike anything I’ve seen.”
Slayton sniffed the air. “A faint trace of sulfur.”
“We can’t account for that,” said Llewellyn, “although my theory is that this blackening of the marble is caused in part by sulfuric acid. That accounts for our inability to clean up the mess. In a sense, the black layer is ’glued’ to the stone.”
“That’s just wonderful,” Winship snapped.
Llewellyn picked up a fragment of plating lying at his feet. “The explosive was installed to blow outward, against the plating, and burn in the message. The bomb contained three compartments with varied chemical mixtures, some of which we haven’t identified yet. Mostly, though, a sack of gunpowder caused the big bang. Everything else was a chain reaction. Whoever did this was not interested in a full-scale demolition.”
“That could rule out terrorism,” remarked Slayton.
Glancing at the words on the stone, Winship said, “It reads like a warning.”
Llewellyn took another drag. “What’s so amazing about this bomb is the level of mechanical engineering. Each fuse was timed to dispatch a certain premeasured amount of the acids and reagents. Its designer must be a genius.”
