Ted turned to Terry and said, “Terry, you tell them. I have to get moving.”
Five minutes later, he was at the dog walk, towering over a diminutive Darlene Yu, looking down into a pair of sloe-eyes that were full of questions. He’d changed into civilian clothes, but there were still streaks of black on his face.
“It is you!” Darlene said. “And from the looks of it, you’ve got something to do with all of this mayhem. What’s it all about?”
He didn’t answer. “Did you bring a tape recorder and camera?”
She opened her large handbag and showed the items to him. He nodded and then looked away.
“What is it?” she asked.
He turned and looked down into her eyes again. “That story you printed.”
“Yes?”
“It created a panic. It took all day for them to get people settled down.”
She sighed. “I know. But what are we supposed to do? You know as well as I do that the hearings are a farce. And as far as I’m concerned, our story is right on the money. You should be complaining to those idiots, not me. Did you kill Tommy Wilson?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“I know. I read your article. I appreciate the comments.”
“Are you going to tell me what this is about or not?”
He pursed his lips for a moment and then said, “What if everything you printed was true … and you could prove it? How would you handle it?”
She felt her heart begin to pound. Clearly, the man knew something. She paced the ground for a few moments as she thought about it. Then her face brightened and she said, “I wouldn’t print it right away. First, I’d go to the governor with it. I’d tell him what was happening and give him a chance to set up some sort of evacuation plan. Then … the moment he went public, I’d print the story. That way, there’d be less of a panic.”
“What could the governor do?”
“He could force the feds to come clean,” she said. “He’s an old-time pol. He knows how to play that game.”
“And if he was successful, and the feds did come clean. What then?”
She shook her head and said, “They’d have to evacuate. There’d be no other choice!”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. Now … what have you got?”
He grinned at her. “How would you like to meet two dead men?”
Thirty-four
* * *
Sacramento, California, the capital of California, lies some five hundred driving miles from the fantasy-land of Las Vegas. In Sacramento, Governor George Tasker was having a fantasy of his own. He was dreaming that he was on a cruise ship in the middle of the Caribbean, dancing in the Grand Ballroom. His dancing partner was none other than Jaclyn Smith. She was looking up into his eyes adoringly, telling him how much she admired him … How much she desired him … How much she wanted to leave this room so that they could be alone …
He tried to think of the right words. And as he did so, he was struck with the incongruity of the sound of a ringing telephone. Why on earth, he thought, was a phone ringing in the middle of this dance floor? He could hear the music of the big band clearly. But it was being drowned out by the incessant ringing of the infernal …
His eyes snapped open and he was instantly awake. The band had stopped playing. Jaclyn Smith had vanished. He was in his bed. The phone was still ringing.
He looked at the bedside clock and cursed out loud. As usual, Martha slept on, undisturbed. The woman could sleep through anything.
It was 3:37 in the goddam morning! Nobody called him at this hour! Unless …
“Yes!” he barked into the phone.
“Governor, it’s Jack.” Jack Browne was his press secretary.
“What is it, Jack?”
“Sir, I’ve got a reporter from the L.A. Globe on the other line. They patched me through. I thought …”
Governor Tasker exploded. “Are you nuts? The Globe! Jesus Christ, Jack!”
“Sir … Hear me out. She’s got solid proof, sir. Solid! The story they wrote is true, for God’s sake! She’s got the evidence!”
“Evidence! What evidence?”
“It’s about the earthquake, sir. There really is going to be an earthquake. In L.A. In a matter of days! She’s got the proof!”
“Proof? How the hell can she have proof?”
“Well, for one thing,” the press secretary said, his voice almost a wail, “she let me talk to Thomas Wilson. He was supposed to be dead. He isn’t. Jesus … you aren’t going to believe this …”
George Tasker could feel the hair on his arms starting to stand on end. The name of Thomas Wilson had impacted on his consciousness. “All right! Take it easy, Jack. Is she still on the line?”
“Yes … I thought …”
“It’s all right. You did the right thing. I’ll talk to her.”
He opened the drawer to the bedside table and pulled out another telephone. He punched the lit button and picked up the receiver.
“This is Governor Tasker. Who am I speaking to?”
“This is Darlene Yu, Governor.”
The name was seared into his brain. Just like the name of every other reporter who had participated in the story that had almost torn Los Angeles apart. Names that were forever on his personal shit-list. “What the hell’s this all about?”
“Governor … We can’t come to you, so we thought you might want to come here.”
“Come where? What the hell are you talking about?”
She told him everything. Then she had him talk to Ted Kowalczyk and Thomas Wilson. Throughout, the governor asked some pertinent questions until he was fully satisfied it was no hoax.
Within forty-five minutes, his plane was in the air on its way to Las Vegas.
Governor Tasker and Jack Browne were met at the airport by Darlene Yu, who drove them in a rented car to the RV park. They parked beside the ancient motor home and went inside. After the introductions were made, Tasker, a big man with curly black hair, looked at Ted and said, “You broke into the test site to get these guys out?”
“I had some help,” Ted said.
“You’ve got balls, fella. I’ll say that. On the way over, we listened to the radio news reports. Nobody mentioned anything about these two.”
Tommy Wilson stroked his beard and said, “The reasons should be obvious, Governor.” As he said it, he handed Ted’s copy of the report he had written for NADAT to the governor. “This is the real report,” he said. “The one that was presented at the hearing was faked. They’re trying to cover up the fact that we’ve managed to predict a great earthquake.”
“In God’s name. Why?”
“Because,” Gifford answered, “they’re afraid that evacuation is impossible. For some reason, they’re convinced it can’t be done. So they’ve pinned their hopes on trying to stop the quake from happening.”
“Stop it from happening? Using those bombs? How the hell can they do anything?”
First Wilson, then Gifford, then Dr. Wickshire explained it all to him. When they were finished, the man was almost purple with rage. He turned to Dr. Wickshire and asked, “You seem to be the one with the experience here, Doctor. Is this all poppycock or what?”
Dr. Wickshire looked into his eyes and said, “Not a word of it, Governor. Unless you evacuate Los Angeles, the death toll will be staggering.”
The governor turned to Darlene Yu. “I suppose,” he said, “you’ll have this in the goddam paper before I can even make a move.”
She shook her head. “Not at all, Governor. I want to work with you on this one. I don’t want to see anyone hurt any more than you do. I’ll do whatever has to be done. But …”
“But what?”
“If you take the same tack as the president did, then I’ll just have to do it without you.”
Governor Tasker ran a hand over his eyes. “I can’t understand it. I know Byron Walsh as well as anyone. I can’t imagine what has caused him to r
eact this way.”
“There’s one way to find out,” Ted said.
“You can use my mobile phone,” Dr. Wickshire chimed in. Governor Tasker stood up and banged his head on the ceiling. He rubbed it for a moment and then said, “If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll use a pay phone.”
Thirty-five
* * *
President Byron Walsh sat in the wing-back chair near the window and stared idly at the horizon as the sun, hidden by clouds, burned its way through the day. He was still dressed in the blue pajamas he’d worn to bed, even if precious sleep had failed to come.
It was after eight in the morning. By this time, he should have showered, shaved, dressed, eaten, and been at his desk for at least an hour. That was the way it had been ever since he’d assumed the office, except for those rare days off. But on this bleak morning, he seemed to have no energy at all. Nor enough desire to even make an effort to get ready for the day. He felt like an errant schoolchild, wanting to play hooky from class, perhaps to attend a baseball game, or play with his friends. Except his playing days were over. He was all grown up now, ensconced in a job he’d craved and until now, enjoyed.
This kind of depression was new to him. Most unwelcome, yet somehow recognizable. It was just that he wasn’t quite sure how to fight it.
He turned away from the window as he heard his wife of thirty-two years come into the room.
“Byron?”
“Yes, dear?”
She was dressed in casual clothes, which was her custom. Her face was almost devoid of makeup, with eyes that expressed warmth and caring. “What is it? The California thing?”
She always seemed to know what he was thinking. It had been that way almost from the moment they’d first met. Now they rarely saw each other except on official functions. It was unusual for her to come to his bedroom. What surprised him even more was that she could still read his mind.
“Yes,” he said, quietly.
“Did you sleep at all?”
“Oh, I managed some,” he lied. “I’m fine.”
She walked over to him and placed her hands on his shoulders, then reached up and gently drew his head to her breast.
“You look very tired,” she said.
He patted her arm and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”
She lifted his head and looked into his eyes. “Byron,” she said, softly, “you are the president of the United States. If you really feel that your people are wrong, then you must do what you think is best. Just because you made an agreement doesn’t make it right. Presidents, like women, are allowed to change their minds.”
“You heard?”
“There are few secrets in these halls, my love.”
He smiled weakly. “It’s not quite that simple, my dear. I would lose at least five cabinet members instantly. Probably more later. There would be a terrible scandal. Just terrible!”
He fought to maintain a smile on his face. “Wasn’t it Harry Truman who said there were too damn many secrets in government? Can you imagine Harry in this situation? What do you think he’d have done?”
The telephone beeped quietly, saving her the task of answering her husband. Extricating himself from her grasp, Byron Walsh stood up and walked over to the telephone.
“Yes?”
It was Willard Coones. “Mr. President … I’m afraid we have some real problems.”
He felt a chill go down his spine. What now! The Middle East? Central America? The Tokyo stock market? What horrors would befall him this day?
“I’ll be there in a minute,” he said.
It took six.
He was dressed, shaved and his hair was combed. They were waiting for him in the Oval Office, Coones and Jason Shubert.
He took a seat behind the desk and looked at Coones. The man’s face was a ghastly shade of white. Pointing at Shubert, Walsh asked, “What’s he doing here?”
Coones rubbed a hand across his lips and said, “There was an attack on the nuclear test site in Nevada a couple of hours ago. A heavily armed group of men broke in and took Vance Gifford and Thomas Wilson with them.”
President Walsh looked at though he’d been struck in the face. He stood up and said, “What! How in God’s name …”
“That’s not all,” Coones continued. “We know who set up the raid. It was a man named Ted Kowalczyk.”
“Who?”
“The man who was accused of murdering Wilson.”
“But how …?”
Coones stared at the ground and waved a hand at Shubert. “I think our resident expert can explain that.”
President Walsh stared at Shubert and asked, “So?”
Shubert looked like a man who’d been through hell. If anything, he looked even worse than Coones.
“We … thought … at one time …” His voice wavered as he tried to find the words. “That George Belcher, being a friend and …”
Walsh slammed his hand on the desk and said, “What in the hell are you talking about? Speak up!”
Shubert was in pure agony. He’d made a mistake and now it had come back to destroy his life. He could see that now as he looked into the almost violent eyes of President Walsh.
“Belcher was our FBI point man. He talked to Kowalczyk in an effort to get him to stop his investigation. You see …”
“Get to the point!” the president screamed.
Shubert took a deep breath and tried again. “Belcher let Kowalczyk talk to Thomas Wilson,” he said. “He knew Wilson was alive. We never expected …”
The president’s eyes were almost bulging out of his head. “You mean you let this man know about the whole operation?”
“No! Not all of it. Just the fact that Wilson was alive.”
“And you didn’t tell anyone?”
Shubert extended his arms outward. “I didn’t think it would come to this. Belcher was convinced that if we let this guy talk to Wilson, we could get him to cooperate. Instead, Kowalczyk assaulted Belcher, gave him a broken jaw, in fact. The man is in the hospital and hasn’t uttered a word since.”
The president took a deep breath and asked, “But why? Why in God’s name would you let this man talk to Wilson in the first place? What ever possessed you to make such a stupid mistake?”
Shubert’s eyes rolled toward the ceiling. “It was … the man was investigating the death of his friend. He was starting to make some progress. I thought that if he was given a chance to see what we were trying to do, he’d come around like the rest of them.”
President Walsh’s jaw dropped as the full impact of what was being said hit him. Pointing his finger at Shubert, he said, “And when he didn’t, you had the FBI make him out to be a murderer. You had them pursue him in the hope that he’d be killed. Am I right?”
“No! That was Graves’s doing, not mine.”
“But you knew! You let it happen! God! Is there nothing you people stand for?”
For a moment the room grew silent. Then Walsh turned to Coones. “So … what happened at the site? You said it was attacked by a heavily armed group. What group? Were there any casualties?”
Coones shook his head. “No casualties. They used a lot of fake bombs. All we know is that there were about five hundred of them. Maybe more. They were all dressed as Army personnel. There were also a couple thousand students protesting at the same time. We think they were part of it. The FBI is investigating. So is the Army.”
“No one was caught?”
“Just the students, and they don’t really seem to know that much. There were some people involved in organizing the student protest but they took off before it was even halfway over. The names they gave don’t show up on any files.”
“And … his people. None of them were caught?”
“No. We have no idea where they are.”
The president slammed a hand on the desk again.
“My God! The press! Has anything come across the wires?”
“No, Mr. President. Just the story of the raid it
self.”
“How long ago was this?”
“About three hours ago.”
“Three hours! Jesus!” President Walsh sank into his chair and covered his face with his hands. Then, acting deliberately, he tore them away and asked, “What are we doing?”
Coones straightened up and said, “Other than contact the FBI, I haven’t done anything yet. I wanted to talk to you.”
Byron Walsh sagged even deeper into the thick leather chair. Coones cleared his throat and asked, “What do you want me to do?”
President Walsh simply shook his head. Then he said, “Better get Director Fisher in here.”
“Shouldn’t I prepare some sort of statement for the press?”
The president looked at him with cold, dead eyes. “No,” he said. “Not yet. Not until I see what happens next. I’ve already made a total fool of myself. I’d rather not compound that just yet.”
“But …”
President Walsh held up a hand. “Would you two please leave me alone now? I’d really like to be alone, if you don’t mind.”
Coones looked at his friend, grabbed Shubert by the arm, and very quietly, the two men left the Oval Office.
An obviously angry FBI director John Fisher was ushered into the Oval Office. The country’s top cop stood rigidly in front of the desk and glowered at Byron Walsh as the president made notes on a yellow legal pad.
“You wanted to see me, Mr. President?” he said, his voice cold and hard.
Walsh slowly laid down the pen he was using and looked up. He leaned back in his chair and asked, “Have you found out anything yet?”
Fisher nodded. “Some.”
“And?”
“I don’t think you really want to know.”
President Walsh seemed confused. “I don’t understand,” he said.
“I think you do,” the director said, harshly. “I’ve just received a message from the RAC in San Francisco. He’s been trying to break one of our people’s silence for days. He finally succeeded. I’ve been given to understand that some of my people have been working for the Pentagon. I was unaware of this until this moment. I’d like an explanation.”
The Big One Page 32
