He took the transparency of his sketch and laid it on top of the rendering of the fault line. What he saw made his heart pound almost unmercifully.
Price! The sonofabitch had been right!
They matched.
All of the oil wells were located either directly on, or adjacent to, the fault line.
Rusty Coleman felt the adrenaline begin pumping madly, coursing through his veins unchecked, the rush making his hands tremble.
It had to be, he thought.
He’d found his probe locations.
Bill Price stared at a small television set propped on his desk and watched the hearings as they progressed in Sacramento. It was high drama, the testimony unfolding as though it had been carefully choreographed for maximum effect.
He glanced at his watch. By now, Darlene should be there, replacing the man he’d earlier assigned to the job.
When she’d reported in, he’d asked her if she wanted to take some time to get settled and she’d said no. Even though she hadn’t yet found a suitable apartment and was bunking in with an old friend, she expressed the desire to get right to work, so he’d suggested she cover the story in Sacramento. She’d accepted the assignment with relish.
Price stared at the television set. All morning, he’d had the deep-seated conviction, as he watched the hearings, that they were some sort of a sham. Just another part of what now looked like a massive campaign of disinformation being disgorged by elements of the government. In his own mind, several fingers pointed to the assumption that Los Angeles, in fact, was in grave peril and the decision had already been made to do nothing about it.
Nothing!
Rusty had said he’d attended a series of seminars where the evacuation of Los Angeles had been discussed. The consensus of opinion was that it couldn’t be done! If so, it could only mean one thing. They were simply going to let it happen, because they didn’t believe it was possible to evacuate L.A. Nothing else made sense!
It was incredible!
How, he wondered, could he break through the defenses? He needed a hook! Something that would sound the alert! Something that would be accepted as proof they were all being lied to!
Now, as he watched the afternoon session begin, he could feel a sense of anxiety building in him. This was the biggest story of all time! Bigger than Nixon! Bigger than anything! Los Angeles was about to be destroyed and the government was going to stand by and watch it happen!
Jesus!
He felt a chill go down his spine.
He was in L.A. Sitting in an old building that would crumble like so much cardboard. His very life was in danger! This minute!
Price lit a prohibited cigarette and stared at the small television set, his anxiety growing by the second.
He watched as a tired-looking man, overweight and slovenly in appearance, raised his hand and took the oath. Then the man sat down, exhaling noisily, as though even this small effort was too taxing.
“Please state your name.”
“Sergeant Alvin Drucker, Menlo Park Police Department.”
Price snorted. The high rent district of California couldn’t afford cops who looked better than this? He visualized this blimp trying to chase a suspect. He wouldn’t get more than ten feet. He made a mental note to look into it further. The Globe rarely missed an opportunity to stick it to anyone and everyone located north of Santa Barbara. It was almost tradition.
Senator Jake Simpson leaned forward and said, “Sergeant Drucker, the committee thanks you for taking the time to appear here today. Would you please tell us about your investigation into the death of one Thomas Wilson.”
“Yes, sir.”
Drucker took a deep breath, opened up a file folder and began to read from his notes.
“The initial investigation into the death of Thomas Wilson was carried out according to regular procedures,” he said, his voice a flat monotone. “The body was examined by the coroner’s office and positive identification was made with the aid of dental records, then released to next-of-kin. Investigation of the crash site … Wilson was killed in a one-car auto accident … and a full-scale examination of the vehicle … failed to indicate foul play. So the case was closed.
“Subsequently, I was contacted by the FBI and told that they wished to cooperate with us in a reexamination of the case. They have since presented evidence to me and to the Grand Jury. An hour ago, an indictment was handed down and warrants have been issued for the arrest of one Theodore Kowalczyk and one Theresa Wilson. Wilson is the ex-wife of the victim, Thomas Wilson.”
Simpson leaned forward and asked, “They are accused of murdering Thomas Wilson?”
“Not as yet, sir. They are prime suspects, yes. The evidence is still being gathered and the warrants are for the purpose of further investigation.”
“And what would be the motive?”
Drucker sighed and said, “Kowalczyk is an employee of an insurance company that is a member of AAIS. He is an old friend of Mrs. Wilson’s. We think that he was hired by AAIS to knock off Wilson and used Mrs. Wilson to set up the hit.”
The gallery went wild. Reporters were pushing past people to get to telephones while still cameras clicked, their electronic flashes playing havoc with the television signal.
Bill Price sat at his desk and shook his head. It was so crazy … it could even be true. But he knew it wasn’t. In his heart, he knew it was just another ploy.
He hoped Darlene was getting it all down.
He felt a finger tapping on his shoulder. He turned around and looked up into the eyes of Rusty Coleman, eyes that were ablaze with excitement.
“You find something?”
“Boss,” Rusty said, breathlessly, “I think I found the key. We need a geophysicist, fast.”
“The key? What key? What are you talking about?”
“The probes! Remember the probes? I told you there had to be a whole bunch of probe sites? I told you there was no way?”
“Yeah … So?”
“I was wrong! You were right! I’ve found them. I’m sure of it!”
Price switched off the television set, stood up and planted a big kiss on Rusty Coleman’s cheek.
In Sacramento, Darlene Yu looked up from her shorthand pad and almost shouted out her anger.
It was all such trash!
She knew this man Kowalczyk. She’d covered the story of the death of his family before she’d been shipped off to Washington. She’d done a big feature on the man’s career. His two years in Vietnam, his career with the FBI, his anguish at the death of his wife and child, and his subsequent resignation.
For three months, she’d dogged him, talking to him personally on several occasions. She’d been compassionate, probing gently, assuring him that her questions were not designed to exploit, but rather to help prevent such a tragedy from happening again, if such a thing was possible. And he’d cooperated to a degree. For that reason and that reason only.
She’d looked into the soul of this man. She’d seen the intense pride, the high standards, the genuine concern for others that lay within his being.
He was no actor. No fake. He was a throwback to another time. And there was no way on earth that he would be mixed up in some tawdry scheme designed to enrich a bunch of insurance companies. It simply wasn’t possible!
And there was the testimony of this fat cop from Menlo Park. Why was all of this coming out now, at a hearing in Sacramento, when it would normally be something the FBI would speak to directly? Drucker was a local cop involved in a major murder case with national security implications. That was clearly the province of the FBI. Why weren’t they here instead of this sorry excuse for a cop? Why wasn’t the FBI screaming its lungs out? They would never let something like this pass. If they had an APB out on these people, they had to know that it would all hit the fan soon enough. Normally, they were prepared with complete statements regarding high-profile cases. And this one was becoming as high-profile as they got. Besides, Kowalczyk was an ex-FBI agent. An ex-FB
I man involved in a conspiracy to kill a geologist? And they were letting this local cop do all of the talking? Crazy!
There had to be another reason for all of this. And she had to find out what it was.
Then she remembered Rusty’s reaction earlier in the day when she’d asked him if he’d found something. The veteran reporter had claimed there was nothing, yet she’d seen the fire in his eyes, the excitement in his walk.
He had found something!
She slapped her notebook shut and forged her way out of the hearing room, hoping that she’d be able to make it outside before the anger building inside her made her scream.
Twenty-five
* * *
President Byron Walsh stood up from behind the big oak desk near the window of the Oval Office and walked around in front of it. He leaned against the desk, thrust his hands in his pockets and stared down at the man sitting in the chair. “You cannot be serious,” he said, the veins in his neck standing out, almost pulsing as he fought to control his anger.
“I realize how terrible this appears, Mr. President,” said his visitor, “but I assure you, I had no idea how … entrenched … this agency had become. Not until I discussed it with Graves this very afternoon. I am as shocked and upset as you are. It’s conceivably one of the worst scandals in the Pentagon’s history. I hope you’ll give careful consideration to all aspects of the situation before you …”
The look in the president’s eyes caused General Simon Howard to let the sentence trail off into silence. Clearly, the man, already renowned for having a prodigious temper, was near the end of his rope.
Byron Walsh’s temper had almost prevented him from becoming president of the United States. Throughout the long and arduous primary season and then the campaign itself, he had striven diligently to present the image of a man who took things in stride, who embodied those qualities most admired and respected by the electorate. His opponents, all of them, were well acquainted with his ambition, his passion and his almost blind intolerance of those he considered thick-headed. They baited him constantly during the campaign, hoping that their jibes would break down the carefully prepared facade and reveal the fire within. Three times they had succeeded.
“Stupidity will destroy this country,” Walsh had blurted out on one occasion. “Not drugs, not the budget, not wars, but pure and simple stupidity! Education must be our number one priority. But it’s not that we need more engineers or doctors or scientists. It’s that we need people who can use the brains God gave them. We need an educational system that demands our children be taught to think! The time has come to de-emphasize sports and other extracurricular activities. The time has come to concentrate our efforts on developing a nation of men and women, regardless of their means, who are capable of competing, on every level, with the best minds in the world. That will be the salvation of America!”
He’d dropped five full points in the polls after that explosion and it had taken six weeks of almost cynical backpedaling to get those precious points back.
He was a man of fifty-two, with a lean, trim body arranged on a medium-sized frame. His closely cropped hair was flecked with gray and the face, while pleasant, was not one that sent female hearts to racing. When the temper was properly controlled, he displayed a demeanor that seemed relaxed and controlled, as if he was a man who was very capable of making the most important decisions with rational, logical thought. In fact, he was all of that. When the temper flared, it was usually because Walsh was confronted by something he found revolting. Another example of an attitude that he felt exemplified certain aspects of American life that had become tolerated, if not encouraged, by decades of platitudes.
“I’m afraid,” General Howard continued, choosing his words carefully, “that we’ve allowed this situation to get a little out of hand.”
President Walsh reared back in mock surprise. “A little out of hand? Is that what you call it? I call it something else entirely. You said a man named Graves is behind this?”
“Yes. I should tell you that Robert Graves is considered one of the brightest men we’ve ever …”
A wave of the hand cut the man off. “Save the testimonials for later. Right now, I want the stupid sonofabitch in this office within the hour.”
The man in the chair almost leaped to his feet. “Sir, I think before you talk to him, you should …”
Again, there was an imperial wave of the hand. “Frankly, General, I don’t give a damn what you think. I am anything but a hands-off president. Maybe someday, you people will get that through your heads. I want Graves in this office within the hour and that’s an order. This conversation is at an end.”
The general stood stiffly at attention, saluted and left the room.
Thirty-five minutes later, Robert Graves was ushered into the Oval Office and took the seat recently vacated by the general. In addition to Graves, the president’s chief of staff, Willard Coones, took his position in the other chair that faced the desk.
There were no formalities, no handshakes, no pleasantries. Instead, the president concentrated on the report on his desk and let Graves stew for a few moments. After what seemed like an eternity, he raised his head and removed his glasses, almost flinging them onto the desk.
“As I understand it,” he said, his voice an angry rasp, “you’re the mastermind behind this debacle, is that right?”
Graves cleared his throat, played with his tie for a moment and then said, “You can spare me the bleats of outrage, Mr. President. I am a man who is paid to do a certain job. I happen to do mine well, as is the case here. If there is a problem, it lies with the failure of politicians to come to grips with the realities of life, choosing instead to spend their days in an endless series of ‘photo opportunities.’ There are serious problems that must be addressed on a daily basis. I happen to be one of those chosen to be involved with those problems. If you don’t like it, that’s too bad.”
For a moment, Byron Walsh simply stared at this arrogant man, then dropped his gaze to the report in front of him. “Your lack of respect for our system of government is duly noted, Mr. Graves. Perhaps it explains how you managed to operate with impunity all of these years. We’ll deal with that later. Right now, my concern is focused on this report. Is it true?”
Unhesitatingly, Graves answered, “Yes, it is.”
The president gritted his teeth. “You’re telling me that we know a terrible, terrible earthquake will strike Los Angeles and we’ve kept it a secret! Is that what you’re saying?”
Graves remained impassive; supremely confident in his ability to handle this political animal, as he had others in the past. “Yes,” he said, his lips barely moving. “For very good reasons, as are stated in the report.”
President Walsh tapped his fingers on the report and said, “I haven’t had the opportunity to read it all, but I’ve just spent the last two hours with General Howard and he’s given me the main points. Up until now, you’ve been making all of the decisions and now … now that the fat is in the fire, you’ve kicked it all the way up to the White House.”
A tight smile played over the president’s lips. “It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that one out, Graves. This one is too hot to handle. You don’t want to mess up. Right?”
The words touched a nerve. Graves ran a hand over his lips and said, “It has nothing whatsoever to do with me, Mr. President. The fact is that the decision is one that would most properly be made by you, not some lower functionary like myself.”
“Bullshit!”
The president’s voice was so loud it made Graves jerk back in the chair.
President Walsh’s eyes were thin slits. His cheeks were flushed with anger. “You’ve made all of the decisions so far,” he said, his voice now barely controlled. “Decisions that may have destroyed the credibility of this entire administration. According to you, that’s the way it was set up. What a president didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. God! Who was the first man you conned into going along with
that line of reasoning?”
Graves swallowed hard and said, “I don’t appreciate your terminology, Mr. President. The fact is …”
Walsh cut him off with another sweeping wave of the hand. Tapping the report with his index finger, he said, “According to you, there’s no way Los Angeles can be evacuated without tremendous problems. Right?”
Graves’s face now took on a bored expression. “The evidence to support that opinion is irrefutable.”
“I’ll bet. And the bombs? They won’t work?”
“The report makes no such claim. It states that there is a very strong likelihood that they will be ineffective. In a worst-case scenario, they could be construed as having been responsible for the actual quake, which would put the government in an untenable situation. It was a worthy effort, but I would recommend not using them.”
“Have they been ordered?”
“That decision is yours, Mr. President.”
President Walsh sneered at his guest and said, “Yes, of course.” He stood up and walked to the front of his desk, as he had with General Howard. Again, he leaned back, resting his small posterior on the edge of the desk, then bent his upper torso forward so that his face was less than three feet away from that of Graves.
“Very well,” he said, crossing his arms in front of his chest, “here’s what you’ll do. You will order the bombs to be produced. That’s number one. Secondly, you will convene your group and you will present a plan for the evacuation of Los Angeles to me within twenty-four hours.”
Graves looked stunned. “Mr. President, that would be impossible! I’ve already …”
The president shoved his face directly in front of the man in the chair. “Mr. Graves,” he said, “I’m giving you a direct order. You are to carry out that order posthaste. There are to be no more arguments, no long discussions. Just do it!”
The Big One Page 24
