by Jim Stark
Choquette: And maybe without the consent of the person being tested!
Cluff: That's true. The C.V.A. can work over the phone or from a tape recording or off the TV or the radio.
Choquette: Mr. Cluff, I'm sure you know many experts have panned your invention, said it wasn't even as accurate as the polygraph, and some critics even questioned your honesty, and the scientific reliability of your results. But you put it to a practical test, I understand, during the Great Foreign Currency Scandal, where the U.S. Mint was caught red-handed printing the currencies of some other countries. And you apparently had some success in—
Cluff: Yes. We wanted to publicize our new discovery, of course, but we ran into tremendous market and media resistance, so we taped and analyzed the testimony from the U.S. Senate Inquiry and the public pronouncements of the president and most of the other major participants in the scandal. We believed we could tell who was lying and who wasn't. When the whole truth eventually came out, it turned out we were right in our assessments ... not a hundred percent, but almost every time. We've improved the C.V.A. since then, and now it's virtually one hundred percent accurate.
Choquette: And after this public demonstration—well, some have called it a publicity stunt—did your device prove to be a commercial success?
Cluff: At first, the response was good, even enthusiastic. We got a few small contracts with corporations that were losing millions of dollars a year as a result of internal theft ... stuff being stolen by their employees, everything from computers to kitchen utensils to vehicles. We would go into a company's operation once every month and select a small number of employees at random. We'd ask if they'd stolen anything from their employer, and of course they'd all say no. Then we'd run the tape of their responses through the C.V.A., and we could tell who was lying and who was telling the truth. We saved those corporations millions of dollars, not so much by catching culprits as by setting up a situation where this kind of internal theft was deterred—by the increased probability that employees would get caught if they did steal something.
Choquette: But your company's success was short-lived, I understand.
Cluff: That's right. We were just getting our feet on the ground, financially speaking, when some civil rights organizations and unions got involved. There were a number of lawsuits related to our commercial applications. We lost the first case, and basically, that was that. We didn't have the capital to fight all the other cases, so we declared bankruptcy. C.V.A. Inc. went under, and we couldn't find any new lenders or partners who would take a chance on the machine.
Choquette: Can I try it?
Cluff: Be my guest.
Choquette: Ladies and gentlemen, the statements I will now read from these cards were worked out by our producer, just before we went on air. I'm seeing them for the first time myself, so you can be sure this is a fair test.
Okay, here goes. Mr. Cluff, I was hired by Alpha Television on September six in the year two thousand.
Cluff: That's—uh—true.
Choquette: Well, you're off to a flying start. That's the exact date that I was hired, and I don't know how you could have known that except from your machine here. Let's try another. My son goes to day care at three sixty-seven Tate Avenue.
Cluff: That would be—uh—false, Paula.
Choquette: Amazing! My son goes to day care at three sixty-eight Tate, not three sixty-seven, but your machine picked up on that small difference.
Cluff: Not really. The machine only registered the fact that you knew the statement to be false, Paula. If you hadn't been aware of the error, consciously or subconsciously, the C.V.A. would have indicated that you were telling the truth. But when you realized you were in fact saying something untruthful, your nervous system automatically affected your voice pattern—those inaudible frequencies we talked about—and that's all that this machine is designed to pick up and analyze.
Choquette: One more try. My locker here at the station is number sixteen.
Cluff: Uh—nope, it's not.
Choquette: That was pretty impressive, Mr. Cluff. So, what's next for you?
Cluff: Well, I'm hoping for a good response to my publicity tour. I used to be very secretive about this machine, but now I figure if people get to know me and know about the C.V.A., it could attract investors, and I can get back into production. I think we'll see the day when all lying and deception will become technologically impossible, and the world will simply have to adjust to this new reality.
Choquette: Now you've written a small book about your invention and the problems you've had because of it, which you published yourself, right? So how's it selling?
Cluff: Not very well. Of course the chain stores don't want to stock it, and the independent book stores just take a few here and there, on consignment, but I hope through programs like this, people will learn about the book and realize how important it is to get this technology developed.
Choquette: Mr. Cluff, thank you so much for coming on Cross Country Pulse. You've certainly given us food for thought.
The book, Truth and Consequences, by George Cluff. Up next, thoughts of food. Pierre Beaudoin talks to an Inuit woman from up in Nunavut ... which means “our land” in the Inuktitut language ... an Inuit woman who has turned her basement into a year-round vegetable garden.
Colonel Findlay turned off the television and “rewound the tape,” so to speak. He felt it would be prudent to wait for General Brampton to respond before offering any insights or guesses as to where this Cluff fellow might fit in with the Helliwell situation.
The general was on his feet and pacing. “Findlay, I think we got a direct hit here,” he said. “The way that woman made those statements and tested Cluff's machine was almost identical to the conversation we picked up between this guy Helliwell and the senator. You know what I think? I think Helliwell used to work with Cluff, or he stole his idea. Maybe Helliwell learned about the C.V.A. and reinvented it on his own. Maybe he got a copy of Cluff's book and figured it out. We got photos of Helliwell leaving the senator's office, getting into his car, and he certainly wasn't carrying any twenty-pound machine with him. Maybe he invented a smaller version of it. That's ... possible, isn't it ... with today's technology?"
"I ... really couldn't tell you, sir,” said the Colonel. “I suppose it is."
General Brampton lapsed into reflection, and fear. “If I'm right,” he said after half a minute, “Cold War II could get hot. Both sides do things that are fucking light years beyond the limits of public tolerance. The only factor that keeps the Cold War cold, or cool, is the tacit agreement by them and us to do our fighting in the dark, to keep this business away from the God damned TV cameras. If C.V.A. machines became available to CBS, 60 Minutes would find out everything and blab it all over the fucking place. On the other hand, we might be able to use the C.V.A. to convince suicide bombers in the Middle East that their belief about getting into heaven free is a crock, sold to them by unscrupulous criminals with political agendas, never mind they wore holy robes."
The general had a glazed look on his face as he sat on the arm of the couch. Findlay knew the drill: shut up and wait. Everyone at the U.S. consulate and at the embassy knew about his habit, and no one ever said a word when he drifted off. That is not the face of madness, they reassured themselves, but the mask of a brilliant military mind, lost in strategic calculation.
"If Helliwell has perfected and miniaturized the C.V.A.,” said Brampton, “he could have put it in his pocket. But then it could be stolen.” His eyes moved off again to some distant point far beyond the walls of the safe-room.
Colonel Findlay ceased to exist for all practical purposes, and he did his very best to remain motionless. He was close to retirement himself. He had served under Brampton in Vietnam way back in 1970, long before Brampton made general, and he'd seen him float off like this for minutes at a time. It was easy to be skeptical about the manner of the man ... but when his odd silences ended, it was equally easy to be impressed by
the product of these ... departures.
"But ... he ... had ... a ... cast ... on ... his ... arm!” shouted Brampton as he slapped the palm of his left hand with the back of his right hand to punctuate each word of his deduction. “The son-of-a-bitch had a cast on his arm, Findlay! Are you with me here?"
"You think ... he hid the miniaturized C.V.A. in a false cast?” he asked.
"Exactly!” said the general.
He walked over to the table, leaned on the corner, and used the secure phone to call his personal aide, six floors above. By the Jesus, he said to himself, I'm as good as I ever was, and that's pretty fucking good. “Carl, it's me. Call every hospital within, say, four hundred miles of Ottawa. Start off here, Ottawa, and work your way out to Toronto and Montreal. Ask if there's any record of a broken lower arm or wrist or any other injury requiring an arm cast in the last month or two involving a Victor Helliwell, or Halliwell. Put everybody on this. I want the answer by this time yesterday."
He hung up the phone brutally and wagered himself that the hospitals would come up empty. “I have something I want to ask you, Findlay,” he said bluntly. “Do you think it's possible that our guys killed Cluff, that we brought that plane down?"
"Jeeze,” said Findlay, “you know I take a dim view of that sort of thing. I guess it's ... possible, but I hope that's not what happened."
"Well, we probably didn't, or we'd have his machine and I'd fucking know about it, right?"
"That ... would seem reasonable,” managed Findlay, “unless the C.V.A. really was no good, like people said back in—"
"But we may still have to ‘disappear’ this Helliwell character,” said the general in a whisper, as if even the ultra-high technology of the safe-room could never contain such a terrible secret.
"I ... know there's ... no other way in some circumstances,” said Findlay nervously, “but it's not my nature to take a life ... except in a shooting war. Wipe out a career, a marriage, an organization, yes, but murders of innocent friendlies, in the name of freedom and democracy? It's ... just not right."
"Don't paint me as a bad guy,” barked the general. “Nobody likes war ... not me, not anybody. Not even a Cold War. Do you know why they call it a Cold War, Findlay? Do you realize why they don't call it a cold fucking difference of opinion or a cold fucking disagreement? Because it's a fucking war, Findlay, a real war, with real fears and real hatreds and real high stakes and real guns and real dead people. We do what we have to do, is all, and I really resent you suggesting that I'm a villain in all this."
Brampton stood above Findlay, stared down at the man in the chair, waited for an apology. The Colonel was impressed with the argument, but not so much that he was willing to grovel and recant. There were standards and rules for wars—hot, cold, anti-terror or otherwise—international standards, laws, norms, the Geneva Convention—and it was irrelevant that these rules were rarely observed or respected these days.
"We could let the Canadian Department of National Defence handle it,” suggested Findlay.
Brampton slowly raised one condemning eyebrow. There were times when Colonel Findlay, clever as he was, didn't seem to grasp the big picture ... the biggest picture, at any rate.
"But those guys at DND went right to DEFCON-ONE during the Cuban Missile Crisis,” protested the Colonel, “without any legal or political authority, while Prime Minister Diefenbaker was waffling on whether to let our nuclear weapons into Canada. Those soldiers served the cause of freedom and democracy, served it in a way that could have had their entire upper echelon court-martialed. I mean they're going to go through the roof when ... when..."
Findlay stopped himself in mid-complaint, to the general's evident satisfaction. He realized that Canadians would never know. This would have to be covered up, forever. Helliwell was as good as dead.
"Get with the program, soldier,” scolded Brampton. “We got us a major-league team at the embassy here. We don't stand around picking our damned noses while you and your pretend-spies are out there carrying the ball. Cold War II could be the run-up to the big one, and even if we manage to avoid a nuclear war, this C.V.A. thing could be ten or a hundred times more dangerous than the Cuban Crisis. You do understand the gravity of the situation, don't you, my old friend?"
Findlay detested the general's patronizing attitude, and he was having a difficult time getting his brain to agree that this taxi driver represented a threat to the planet. But for now, he had another priority: He had to make sure that he didn't become one of those “in the know” who couldn't be trusted any more. “Of course I understand,” he said firmly.
Brampton watched Findlay as he rose to leave. He thanked him for the videotape—that's what he called the DVD—he congratulated him on a first-rate piece of research, and assured him that he would welcome any ideas that would allow them to handle the Helliwell matter politically. As the heavy door closed, the general was again alone in the safe-room. “It's very difficult to work with that man,” he said out loud. “He isn't really cut out for this business."
Chapter 8
ROOM FULL OF STRAW
The Patriot field house on the Whiteside estate was staffed around the clock by rotating shifts of agents, with a minimum of three per shift. The control room had a sophisticated communications set-up that was operated twenty-four hours a day. There were never fewer than twelve agents in the bush or in unmarked cars circling the estate, staying in touch by radio. All calls were electronically scrambled, to foil ham operators or anyone else who might want to pry. In addition to keeping the radio traffic in order, the agents in the control room also monitored an elaborate array of automated high-tech surveillance equipment that assured the safety of the Whitesides.
The patrol agents and the inside staff had living quarters in what amounted to a private motel in the Patriot compound, so they would be comfortable for the four-day weeks they put in, away from homes and families. It cost more than a million dollars a year to conduct this security operation, but Whiteside Tech could well afford it, and the circumstances of the early 21st century demanded it.
Within the compound, Cam O'Connor had a small house to himself. He rarely stayed there, but since Victor Helliwell had arrived, he'd taken up regular residence. The security business, much like the military business, had to organize its activities in accordance with worst-case scenarios, and while he felt that Victor was overestimating the danger he was in, Patriot could take no chances.
It was 11:00 a.m. on Good Friday, and Cam was in his quarters, catching up on sleep. There had been a nasty scare at 4:00 a.m. A couple of not-so-young lovers—both married, as it turned out, although not to each other—were looking for a place to park ... or whatever. They had tripped a silent alarm as they drove onto a path that led to one of the several dozen security huts located around the circumference of the estate.
Helen Kozinski was at the field-office helm. She was thirty-six years old, a “semi-natural” blond by her own admission, and as tough as a brick of deep-frozen butter when the need arose. She was also Annette's best pal and confidante, so her interest in the incoming intelligence-feed from the lodge was keen. She had donned the earphones herself as Annette talked to Victor about the glories of Ray's greasy spoon, the place where he had purchased cigarettes two days earlier. She imitated the amusing Ottawa Valley twang that was to be found there, and remarked on the endless joshing that went on among the locals when they weren't spooked by an outsider. Then the problem emerged.
"Damn,” said Helen. “Annette knows what that will do to us here. I can't believe this.” There was no choice. She'd have to wake up the boss.
"Cam,” she said into the phone, “Victor has decided he wants to go to Ray's Restaurant for lunch with Annette. They're just getting into the jeep out at the lodge. They'll pass the manor in about five minutes. You—uh—better get up."
"Okay,” said Cam. “Set up for front and aft coverage, and get Buck over to Ray's, armed—and sober."
"Gotcha."
As Victor and Annette rounded the last curve and emerged from the bush, the security operation was ready to go. There was a Patriot car that would lead by half a mile and another that would follow at the same distance. Grant Eamer, the corporate pilot, had been required to stay at the field office since the mysterious guest had arrived at the lodge. His job was to take the helicopter up fifteen seconds after the jeep turned onto the road. He was told not to start the engine until they were out of sight, and that rankled. Cam didn't appreciate what a cold engine could do to a pilot's life span.
"There's Cam ... with a golf bag?” said Victor as they passed through the back gate and drove onto the grounds of the manor proper.
"Yeah, goofing off, as usual,” said Annette playfully, and quite wrongly. “I guess we should stop and tell him where we're going."
"Oh ... hi guys,” said Cam, with a surprised look on his face as the jeep pulled up. He was glad to see that Annette had insisted on driving, and had left the roof up. “You look like a new man without the mustache,” he said as he leaned his forearms on the sill of the open window.
"Thanks,” said Victor. “Annette gave me a haircut last night, then she talked me into shaving. I do feel like a new man."
Cam had a smile on his face—not a leer, but an oversized grin, to be sure. An unlikely couple ... if they are a couple, he thought. Maybe they will hit it off. “So, where are you off to?” he asked, feigning ignorance.
