Ted glared at the man. “But why didn’t you start screaming when you realized a big one was going to strike L.A.?”
For a moment, the cramped interior of the motor home grew quiet, save for the growl of the twin air conditioners on the ceiling.
Fraser squirmed in his seat. “Because we were suckered!” he said. “We were told by NADAT three months ago that the likelihood of an earthquake in L.A. was remote. Shubert met with me and told me flat out that there were many things wrong with the data. Then, when I started to push it a little, I was told that an evacuation plan was in the works. It’s only in the last few days that we’ve been able to put everything together, thanks to you.”
Ted gave the man a hard look. “You certainly made sure that your members did everything they could to cut their losses, though.”
“I admit that,” Fraser said, his gaze wavering. “But that started two years ago. At that time, we notified our members verbally that we were concerned about a big quake hitting Los Angeles and suggested they take whatever steps they could, surreptitiously of course, to protect themselves. You see … insurance companies are required to maintain certain reserves for most of their underwritings. But earthquake insurance is a different matter. The reserves are not adequate to cover something this big. It would wipe a lot of companies out.
“At the same time, we went to the federal government and asked them to help us financially in the event that a major quake did strike, but they just dragged their feet. The fact is, insurance company bashing is the in thing just now, so politically, it’s not very viable to consider backing us up. But in my view, they should have put politics aside on this issue. After all, we were the ones who made the prediction of the quake possible. Totally unfair.
“Now, the members are in a terrible bind. It’s not just the damage claims that will bankrupt them. It’s the other claims as well. Death, injury … loss of income … No reserves are large enough to handle something like this. Without the assistance of the feds, many of our members are out of business. Pure and simple.”
“And business is business, right?”
Fraser grunted and said, “You make it sound dirty. It isn’t. The fact remains that we are spending whatever it takes to support you on this little exercise of yours. We believe in what you’re doing and we’re willing to put our money where our mouths are. If that isn’t enough for you, I’m sorry. It’s the best I can do.”
Again, Fraser hung his head. For a moment, no one spoke. Then Frank Leach said, “Ted … you’re being a little hard on the man. He’s here now. He’s supporting you all the way. His ass is out a mile here. Maybe the association had a hard time believing this was actually happening. Maybe they thought the government would evacuate at some point. You have to understand …”
Ted waved his hand. “Yeah, yeah.” Ted could feel his stomach beginning to turn. As much as the man’s attitude disgusted him, he could see the problem. Allied against the association were the considerable forces of an agency of the government, with almost infinite power at their disposal. Already, the hearings in Sacramento had been turned into an orgy of wild charges, none of them founded, but all of them damaging. There was an implied threat that lay exposed for anyone on the inside to see. Cooperate and somehow things will work out. Fail to cooperate, and you’ll be out of business.
NADAT had played the AAIS for suckers from the beginning. And now, they were dealing their cards face up, using a stacked deck, and there was nothing the association could do about it.
“Well,” Ted said, “there’s only one way out of this mess. Frank said you have a connection that can get us through to the president.”
“Yes, I do.”
“OK. Do you know where you can reach him right after the operation?”
“Yes. I have his home number.”
“Good.” He turned back to Frank. “You said you had something for me in the way of a disguise?”
Frank opened his briefcase and extracted a hairpiece, a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, a false mustache and a stick-on beard. He handed them to Ted.
After putting them on, Ted looked in the small mirror affixed to the wall and shook his head. “If a cop sees me in this getup, he’ll assume I’m some freaked-out child molester. This’ll never work. It’s too obvious.”
Dr. Wickshire tapped him on the shoulder and said, “I have an idea, Ted.”
“Yes?”
“Why don’t you let me speak to them?”
“But you don’t know the plan!” Ted protested.
“I realize that,” she said. “But I don’t need to. All I need to do is divide them into smaller groups. Each of the smaller groups could pick a leader and the leaders of each group could be brought here, to the motor home. You could brief them personally, with a minimum amount of risk.
“Look … you’re a very tall man. The FBI is looking for you. No matter what sort of disguise you wear, you’ll still manage to draw attention to yourself. No one is looking for an old lady and I can move around without having to look over my shoulder. I think it’s the ideal solution.”
For a few moments, Ted stared at her in awe. Then he said, “You’re quite a lady, Doctor. Quite a lady.”
She was grinning from ear to ear.
“OK,” he said. “You’ve got yourself a deal. You go over there and talk to them, but don’t tell them anything. Not just yet. Just stall them until I have a chance to talk to the team leaders.”
She smiled and said, “Very good.”
Ted turned to Frank and asked, “Who’s your man?”
Frank look puzzled. “A guy named Radley,” he said. “Ron Radley. But she doesn’t need to worry about that. I’ll take her there.”
“No,” Ted said. “I want you two out of sight. We can’t afford to take any unnecessary chances. What’s this guy look like?”
Frank looked like he wanted to argue, but decided against it. “He’s a tall guy, like you.” Then he turned to Dr. Wickshire and said, “Radley will be at the door to the conference room, checking names. He’s the guy to see.”
Ted stared at Dr. Wickshire and said, “OK … you got that?”
She nodded.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ted saw Terry slouched on the sofa, looking tired and drawn. He moved to her side and sat down.
“Are you OK?” he asked.
She threw him a wan smile, then patted his hand. “I’m just a little tired,” she said. “I guess it’s the not knowing that wears you out. I mean, here you are getting ready to involve yourself in this dangerous effort to rescue Tommy … and you don’t even know if he’s alive. It’s … very nerve-wracking.”
Before he could respond, Dr. Wickshire hugged the dog to her body and then placed him in Terry’s lap. “Look after Pierre while I’m gone.”
“I will,” Terry said.
The doctor left the motor home and started her long walk to the Hilton. With the dog squirming anxiously in her arms, Terry opened the blind just enough so the dog could watch her. The dog’s gaze followed the woman’s movements until she was completely out of sight. Then he settled down.
Ted had been watching her as well. Watching and marveling. She was seventy-five years old and full of life.
An inspiration.
Twenty-seven
* * *
On the other side of the country, Robert Graves sat at a small desk in his fifteenth-floor Washington apartment and scratched out a note on a white piece of paper embossed with his initials.
A tear rolled down his cheek and dropped onto the paper, blurring what had just been written.
Graves crumpled up the paper and threw it in the wastebasket. He then reached into the desk drawer and took out another sheet.
It was so unfair, he thought. So terribly unfair.
He’d dedicated his life to his country. He’d saved countless people from the specter of facing up to their own mistakes, including two presidents. For his trouble, he’d been treated, over the years, like any other bureaucrat, n
one of whom had the foresight and the wisdom he possessed. And now, he’d been totally humiliated by a man devoid of even the slightest intelligence and foresight. A political hack, a man who, by some capricious whim of the gods, held incredible power in his hands.
Power that would be ill-used. Power wasted. Power that could send Robert Graves to prison!
Prison!
He’d been a patriot. He’d sacrificed his life for his country. And the man was threatening him with prison!
He shuddered.
Once, he’d considered writing a memoir about his experiences in government service, thinking it might serve as a useful guide for those who would follow in his footsteps. But he quickly discarded the thought. There was no one to follow in his footsteps; therefore, to discuss such secrets would serve no useful purpose. His memoirs would be treated in the same fashion as those dreary kiss-and-tell books written by a string of weak-minded individuals. The readers of his book would surely fail to see the import of the work and would, no doubt, categorize the effort as an exercise in self-aggrandizement. He was above such people and refused to subject himself to their uninformed and subjective criticisms. History would speak for Robert Graves, as it had for other unappreciated patriots in the past. He had faith in his ultimate vindication. Unfortunately, the period of time between the present and the day of his vindication would be long and unbearable. He could see no avenue, other than a lowering of his own standards, that would allow him to escape this undeserved anguish.
It was so unfair.
A score of people within the government deserved being exposed for the dolts they were. But doing so would only serve to hurt the country. That was something he could not abide. He could not, in all good conscience, convene his committee and instruct them to devise a plan that he knew was wrong to begin with. It would be a lie. A deceit for no good purpose. They had worked long and hard to produce a report that proffered the only acceptable course of action. To make an about-face now — reject their own work — would be dishonorable and perfidious.
No matter what, he would be looked upon as a man who had lost his power base. Soon, everyone would know that he was a man who’d been treated with scant respect by the president himself.
There was no way out. No way to save face.
He’d put the wheels in motion that would save the face of others, but he hadn’t anticipated having to deal with a man who left him no room of his own.
It was so unfair.
The note he was writing should expose the man for what he really was.
But … he couldn’t do that either. It would be misunderstood and only lead to more degrading, wrongful appraisals of his life and service.
There was nothing left. No way out.
All he could do was to write that he was experiencing failing health and wished to end his agony.
And that is what he wrote. Nothing more, nothing less.
There were no messages to friends, because he had none. There were no messages to loved ones, because there were none.
He was alone.
His work had been his life. And now it was gone.
Having finished the note, he signed it and walked slowly to the window. He turned the latch, opened the window and stared at the street below for a few moments, smelling the air, his other senses absorbing the almost ethereal pulse of power that throbbed throughout the city of Washington.
And then he threw himself into the void.
Twenty-eight
* * *
The conference room was small by necessity. Most of the conference rooms at the Hilton had been booked for some time, but there was this small space left over, and with movable walls placed in position, it was adequate.
Above the group, a large crystal chandelier, almost a symbol of Las Vegas, glowed brightly as the men took their seats and speculated among themselves as to the reason for this hastily prepared gathering. Dr. Glenda Wickshire stood in front of a room filled with 132 men, most of them wearing puzzled expressions on their faces. Beside her stood Ron Radley, an insurance investigator who’d been quickly briefed on why she was there instead of Frank Leach. She rapped her hand on the lectern and smiled sweetly.
“I imagine many of you are wondering what in the world an old lady is doing standing here in front of all of you. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Dr. Glenda Wickshire. I’m not a medical doctor, but rather a … scientist.”
The confusion deepened.
“First, let me say Frank Leach is unable to be at this specific meeting for reasons which will become obvious very soon. I know you’ve all talked to Mr. Leach and you’re very curious as to what this is all about. I am most anxious that you know. All I can tell you at the moment is that there is a vitally important … mission … that needs to be undertaken. A mission so important … it may well be the most significant undertaking you have ever been involved with. I say that with the knowledge that your lives, I am sure, have been filled with many notable accomplishments.
“I wish I could tell you more at this point, but I can’t. Circumstances beyond my control have precluded that. But the fact that you are here is proof that you are the kind of men we were counting on.”
She looked around the room, as though trying to make eye contact with each and every one of them.
“There are two groups of you here. One group is comprised of Vietnam War veterans and the other is made up of insurance investigators. Right now, I would ask that you separate yourselves into the two groups and that each group appoint one man to be the representative from that group. Once that has been done, I will take both representatives out to meet with Mr. Leach and then they will return here and give you a complete briefing. Would you please separate now?”
They all stood up and shuffled into position.
“Very good,” Dr. Wickshire said, once they had realigned themselves. “Now, if each group will appoint a representative, well continue.”
There was a hubbub of conversation. After about five minutes, two men approached the front of the room. Dr. Wickshire shook their hands and then addressed the group once more.
“Right now, I am going to take the men you have selected to another meeting. Then, they will return and give you a complete briefing. In the meantime, why don’t you enjoy yourselves for a bit and we’ll reconvene here at … let’s say … eleven. I realize how silly this all must seem to you, but once you are fully briefed, you’ll understand the need for such caution. Again, many thanks.”
As the men shuffled out of the room, still confused, Dr. Wickshire, her eyes alive with excitement, told the two men to follow her out of the hotel.
“We’ll all get in a cab,” she said. “We don’t want to be followed, so we’ll have him drive around a bit first. You people with the experience can make sure we aren’t being followed. When you give me the sign, I’ll take you to my leader.”
Her face was practically glowing. As they started to walk out of the room, one of the men turned to the man beside him and whispered, “Is this for real?”
The other man shrugged and said, “Beats me. But I’ll run with it for a while. It keeps me away from the goddam tables and besides … she kinda reminds me of my grandmother.”
At much the same time, in Los Angeles, Bill Price was sitting at the conference table along with Darlene Yu, Rusty Coleman, and two other reporters, Helen Horsey and Phil Chambers. There was one more person attending the meeting, the publisher of the Globe, Brian Cantrell.
For almost an hour, they’d been reviewing the information that had been gathered over the past few days.
Darlene had expressed her views regarding the allegations made in Sacramento. Rusty had explained the business about the oil wells. The other reporters had chimed in with information regarding the latest on “Operation Move.”
Several of the convoys originating in Los Angeles had been traced to their final destination.
One was in Salt Lake City. Another was in Boise, Idaho. Still a third was in Albuquerque, New Mex
ico.
All three convoys had ended up in large, empty buildings surrounded by recently installed chain-link fencing. The buildings were guarded by armed military personnel. Windows had been blacked out and security was tight.
In Albuquerque, two of the workers had been followed to a local bar where, after a few drinks, they had expressed disgust with the entire operation. Unfortunately, they’d discussed it with Phil Chambers, a veteran Globe reporter.
They were supposed to be setting up temporary shop, they’d said, but such was not the case. Crates were sitting in the middle of the buildings and no effort was being made to unpack. All they’d been told was to say nothing.
Each morning, they were to report to work and amuse themselves by playing cards or watching television. At the end of the day, they were to return to their temporary quarters, motels not too far from the selected buildings.
They were, for all intents and purposes, simply waiting for something. What, they didn’t know. But they did know that they were away from their wives and families and their normal surroundings. In addition, important work, work that entailed the meeting of specific deadlines, was not being completed. Penalties for nonperformance loomed in their futures. Penalties that would wipe out already-spent bonus money. They didn’t like it. Not one bit.
And then there was the report that had been released in Sacramento by a man named Peterson. The very fact that it had been prepared by two men who were now dead made it completely suspect. Price, after reading it, declared it a complete fabrication, although he had no direct evidence to support his claim. He had, as he put it, a very solid hunch.
Brian Cantrell looked at his watch. It was a rare occasion when this golden-haired son of the newspaper’s late founder deigned to appear at anything having to do with the operation of the newspaper. He usually left such matters to executive editor Sam Steele, preferring to spend his time attending to a variety of high-profile charitable organizations in and around Los Angeles.
The Big One Page 26
