CHAPTER 4
I woke to the sound of traffic and the splashing of tires on wet pavement. Although I fell asleep sitting up, I was now laying down with my gym bag in service as a pillow. The hard plastic handle of the bag had made a dent in my cheek, which I rubbed as I levered myself erect.
“Hey,” M2 said. “Welcome back.”
“Murrff,” I mumbled, through a dry and gummy mouth. “Anyone got a breath mint?”
“Sorry,” he replied.
The passing view was a dull gray, made even more so by the steady rain beating against the windshield. We were in heavy traffic on a four-lane highway. Anonymous buildings loomed large out of the mist as we passed. This did not have the look of an industrial area. My guess was that we were in Washington. A glance at the dashboard clock told me enough time had elapsed. I decided to inquire. “Are we there yet?”
“Yep,” M2 said. “Another five minutes or so. You hungry?”
“Hungry and thirsty and my recycle bin is full.”
We drove on in silence through a gray, misty dome. Although I knew we were in Washington, I could not get a feel of the city. We could have been driving through any big town. The wash of light from the windows of nearby buildings was warm and inviting, but revealed nothing of the life inside.
Minutes later, we stopped at a gated entrance where M1 presented credentials. After an intense look at the papers and the passengers, the guard opened the barrier and waved us inside. Ahead I saw a huge wall of a building materializing out of the mist. There were no identifying signs. I assumed it was FBI Headquarters. Now, I'm back in the big leagues, but I have no idea what position I'm to play.
We surrendered our car in front of a large, solidly closed garage door. A short walk to the left, while toting our luggage, brought us to a small but guarded entrance where again they examined our bona fides. Once inside we were in a rather cramped reception area where my companions signed in. The clerk on duty took my photograph, manipulated a strange machine and then gave me a badge, which displayed my photo, my name and a bar code. A buzzer buzzed, a steel door slid open and we entered a hallway leading further into the interior. It ended at another larger corridor that went both left and right for a considerable distance. A scooter would have been handy, but fortunately a bank of elevators was right there at the intersection.
M1 swiped a card, punched a button and soon a set of doors slid open. Inside the lift he punched another button labeled M and up we went. On exiting the elevator we walked to the left down a long hallway and stopped at a large, solid door identified only by a number. M2 swiped his card and we entered into a shorter corridor that ended at a large window that showed that it was still raining. The whole way I did not see another human being. Perhaps there was no “B” shift on Saturday.
The first door on the left gave us entry to a big, comfortable lobby. It was empty of people, but otherwise filled with cushioned chairs and low tables with shaded lamps that provided subdued, pleasant lighting. A large desk near the entrance was home to an efficient looking receptionist who was busy tapping away at a computer keyboard. My companions waved to her and she flashed them a smile in return with no pause in her finger work.
There were two doors on the left wall—none on the far wall, but three on the right. All had only numbers except the center door on the right that, in small gold letters, spelled out RESTROOMS.
“We have to check in with the chief,” M1 waved his swipe card at me. “We shouldn't be too long. Make yourself comfortable.”
They walked on to the second door on the left. I heard a soft buzz and my pals pulled the door open and stepped inside. As soon as they departed I made a beeline for the restroom door. I assumed it would not be necessary to buzz through to the John and I was right.
Minutes later I was back in a lobby chair and like my first visit to the diner, I had nothing to do. Except for a few anonymous portraits hung on the wood paneled walls the place was devoid of decorations. The assortment of trade magazines laying around were of no interest and that made me settle in for some serious thumb twiddling. A clock on the wall would have helped, but there was none. My Scotty was safely and uselessly tucked away in my desk drawer far away. I made a mental note to add a nice, but cheap wristwatch to my shopping list.
I began to speculate on whether and how much of a salary I might expect. I had had some free meals and a free ride to Washington, but a nice check or two would be welcome. I wondered if they might reactivate my military commission. I ran out of pointless thoughts, so I sat where I was, looked at the restroom door and twiddled away. Thankfully, it was not more than three minutes before the numbered door opened and M2 stepped out to wave me inside. He didn’t look too happy.
The chief’s office was rather large. I had time to look around as we marched over the spongy rug to report. The room was standard government décor except for an elegant, antique apparatus on the right side of the bosses’ desk. It was a square artifact about as big as your average aquarium. Its construction was of very sturdy brass, faced top and sides with thick glass panels. It looked vaguely like an oversized clock because of the many gears and wheels filling the interior.
M1, standing beside the desk, looked as grim as M2. The owner of the desk was on her phone. She glanced at me, then held up her free hand, palm out. This did not bode well, but I couldn’t guess why. We three stood there in an awkward silence, not looking at each other. The name plate on her desk informed me that this person was Alice Dance, but it displayed no title. I hoped that the tension that filled the air had nothing to do with Mr. Cagney.
“Bullshit,” she said, to the phone. “You say you screened this office for bugs and it’s clean. So how come there have been three confirmed leaks of information that never left this room?”
She must have been somewhere in her late forties, but everything was solid and athletic. The large brown eyes had that same steady look common to M1 and M2. Her hair was dark and full.
“Oh yeah,” she said. “Put him on the phone right now.” While she waited for her next victim to pick up the phone, she glanced at me again. Her look was worried and distracted. “You’re Cagney,” she said. I couldn’t tell if it was a question or an observation, so I just nodded. “How old are you?” I felt my hackles rise. She sensed it and opened her mouth to speak, but the next victim had reached the other end of her phone. With her free hand, she made waving motions side to side, as if to negate what she had just said, then resumed her original attack. “Okay, Walter, my expert, you do know the meaning of Top Secret, do you not?”
Rather than standing there like a dummy, I turned my attention to the antique apparatus. A small brass plate identified it as a seismograph built by the Adolph Frese Optical Company. This was no location for a seismograph. It had the three required suspended weights, linked mechanically to three pens with ink cups. I leaned over and saw a small fan governor spinning around. The machine was working, slowly turning the big drum, but there was no paper wrapped around its surface and no ink in the pen cups. One of the cups looked slightly different. I followed its linkage, but it didn’t go to its weight. Instead, it disappeared down among the many gears. Below the workings a fine wire led out to a large speaker mounted to the lower front of the machine. I knew what I was looking at and turned my attention back to Ms. Dance.
“You say it’s impossible, but it happened three times,” she said. “Please, for God’s sake, get your guys back in here and find out what the hell is going on.” She listened for a minute. “Good, thank you.” She hung up the phone, stood up and leaned stiff armed on her desk. “My apologies to all three of you,” she said. “This has been the worst two weeks imaginable. Anyway, let’s begin again. Don and Mike, welcome back. Mr. Cagney, welcome to Washington. Please call me Alice, or bitch if you prefer.”
“Then, do I get a hug?” M2 asked.
“Sure,” Alice said, “but depending on the part I hug, you may not like it.”
“Never mind,” M2 said.
&nb
sp; The ice was properly melted. “We told Alice about our new nicknames,” M1 said.
“Yes,” she said, “I love them. In fact, they may well become official.”
Alice had noticed my interest in the seismograph. “Fascinating, isn't it?” she said.
“Very,” I replied. “I love old machines like this. Are you expecting an earthquake?”
“Right now,” she said, “it's just a pre-electric windup toy—for display only. This is not a very good spot to detect ground motion.”
“I see the big recording drum is turning and a little fan governor is spinning,” I said. “This machine is working.”
“Yes,” she replied. “If it were actually in service the drum would have a paper strip wrapped on the outer surface. The three needles on the top would record tremors or quakes as squiggly lines. Right now the needles just rest on the drum surface. In actual operation there would have been ink in those little cups.”
“What's that big diaphragm on the bottom? It looks like a speaker.”
“It's an alarm, but instead of a magnet and a coil it has a wire fixed to the center that pulls toward the back where there is a trigger mechanism. See that little knobby wheel next to the wire? If there is an earthquake, the trigger sets it to spinning against the wire, which creates a loud noise, so I understand. I've never actually heard it.”
“You have to wind it every day?” I asked.
“I don't. The janitor winds it and gives it a polish every night.”
“I love it,” I said, “but this is about the most unusual office decoration I have ever seen. Do you have a special interest in seismology?”
“Lord, no,” she exclaimed. “The former occupant left it here when he transferred to a smaller office.”
M1 changed the topic. “Okay, all I know is that I am very hungry. How about we go get something to eat?”
“I'd like to take you to Atsas, my favorite Greek restaurant,” Alice said. “My treat.”
“Hoo-Haa,” M2 sang out. “Let's go people.”
Alice herded us out the door, pulled it shut and turned to leave.
“Excuse me,” I said to their backs.
They stopped and turned to face me.
“These are the first words James said to us.” M1 said, to Alice. “Hopefully, he has had another revelation.”
Alice took a step toward me. “I'm listening.”
“I believe,” I said, “you have, in your office, a mechanical voice recorder disguised as a seismograph.”
There was a stunned silence, so I continued, “If you have an ultraviolet light source, I think I can prove it.”
“I have a small unit in my desk,” she said.
“Shine it on the drum.” I said.
Back in her office, she retrieved her UV gun and we all gathered around the brass machine. As soon as she turned on the light, the surface of the drum lit up with a series of tiny wiggly lines.
She looked at me. “Okay, I have the menu. Let's go eat.”
No one said a word until we arrived at the elevators. Alice leaned her back against the wall and said, “Sonofabitch!”
“Wow,” M1 said, while pacing around with both hands in his pockets.
“Tell us what you saw that we didn't,” Alice said.
“We saw the same things,” I said. “I have a fondness and interest in old machines. I know how mechanisms work. The alarm system first aroused my suspicion. Someone had cobbled it together with parts from an old Victrola. I soon realized the tight wire leading from the speaker could transmit sound vibrations to somewhere inside the unit—the same as two tin cans and a string. I traced that wire to the first needle and there I saw a clear liquid in its ink cup. It became obvious at that point, but I didn't want to shout 'EUREKA' because the machine would have recorded my voice. I expect you may wish to watch the janitor the next time he winds and cleans the machine. I imagine he will have a small UV hand scanner. If so, he'll spin the drum and scan the surface then clean it to prepare it for the next day. You probably have security tapes that will show him doing just that.”
There was a silence that lasted half a minute, then Alice shouldered herself away from the wall and stabbed the up button. On realizing she had forgotten the procedure, she said a dirty word, swiped her card and banged the up button again.
“Dinner is still on me,” she said. “I'll call ahead and make arrangements. Me, I have to go and see some people. I'll be in touch.”
M2 swiped his card in the down slot as Alice stepped onto her lift.
“By the way,” she said, while holding the elevator door open, “I just cancelled the interview. Mr. Cagney is now on the payroll. Start him processing in the morning. Give him a crash course in everything. His title will be Special Consultant.” To me she said, “Welcome aboard, James.” She released the elevator door and added, “Oh, yes, your code name is Dirty Rat.”
With that, her door clunked shut and the rest of us boarded our own car. About twenty minutes later, after a damp taxi ride, we found three warm and snug seats inside the Atsas restaurant. Any doubts about the theme of the restaurant vanished when we saw the décor that was an overdose of fake columns, arches, amphorae and statues of naked people. At my back was a life-sized casting of a guy who spent the whole evening mooning our table. Half of my glass of ouzo was busy warming my stomach and relaxing the rest of me. The menu was somewhat obscure. Consequently, I allowed my companions to order my meal. We were in a good mood, just kicking back and reflecting on a successful event.
“Any chance,” I asked both men, “that the, ah, brass thing we looked at has a connection to what brought me here?”
“Doubtful,” M1 held his glass just under his nose to enjoy the vapors, “but it's one of the things we'll investigate.”
“Was it what you were discussing before I came in?” I asked.
“You bet it was,” M1 replied.
The food arrived and we spent the next half hour shoveling in the best that Greece had to offer. After dessert, our conversation continued for a while, but the long day, good food and ouzo caused a certain lethargy to set in.
Our taxi took us to a nearby hotel where there were three side-by-side rooms reserved for us. I found my luggage waiting for me as though I was someone of note, and perhaps I was. This made me feel good. My toothbrush got a workout and that was the extent of my energy as I collapsed into bed. I slept without dreaming.
The bedside phone warbled at 7:00 a.m.
“Rise and shine, sweetheart,” It was M2, sounding obnoxiously chipper.
“It's Sunday,” I growled. “We going to church?”
“You’re on the payroll now pal and this is a twenty-four-seven gig. Meet us downstairs for breakfast in thirty minutes.”
I did the routine and in just twenty minutes was on my way to the lobby. I found that the chef at Atsas did not prepare the scrambled eggs, but the meal was passable and prompt.
The whirlwind began as soon as we arrived at HQ. Unlike Saturday, there were people everywhere doing FBI stuff and at times I felt that they were doing it all to me. Two people photographed me from every angle and distance. I felt more like a felon than an employee. In one room I left my finger, palm and footprints. M2, who was ushering me around, told me to drop my drawers for a butt print. I had my belt half unbuckled before I saw the smirk on his face. I called him an unsanitary rodent and we moved on to a medical area where I got the works. I swear I must have lost about two pounds by the time they finished extracting blood and urine samples as well as various skin scrapings. On the way out I was given a cell phone and an instruction book. For that device, I was on my own.
Next, and the worst, was a flurry of paperwork broken into two parts by a short lunch break. By mid-afternoon I’d had a lecture about stuff I could and could not do as an FBI agent. I heard the lecture while walking a considerable distance to a subterranean firing range where I fired a variety of firearms. Some were very different from those I had used when I was in uniform.
After firing a high-powered assault rifle I requested, as a joke, an M1 Garand which was the first rifle I carried when I joined the Army. To my surprise, the range officer had a rack full and I proceeded to re-qualify on that trusty weapon. The same happened while I was banging away with an assortment of pistols. I requested a standard issue M1911 .45 caliber automatic and there it was. It gave me a set of sore wrists to complement the sore shoulder given to me by the rifles. M2 told me the pistol was still in use in certain parts of the military.
Near the end of the session another employee measured and fitted me with a shoulder holster. It was then I learned that if I needed to carry a gun, it would be the old but familiar M1911 that I had just fired.
This gave me pause. These guys were getting serious.
M2, still with me, adjusted the straps, then slid the gun into the holster.
“Memorize the serial number,” he said, while giving it a final pat.
He picked up a clipboard, shoved it at me and said, “Here, sign this and the gun is yours. Come back to the firing range when you have time. You need to sharpen your skills. Also, practice your quick draw until it becomes completely automatic. You should practice while wearing coats and jackets. Later, I'll show you how to wear an outer garment so as not to reveal that you are packing. A visit to the gym wouldn’t hurt, but wait until things slow down a bit.”
M2's phone rang. “Alice is calling. Here, take these magazines. They go wherever your gun goes. Keep it empty for now. I know you carried guns for more than three decades, but let's give it some time to get back into the groove. It wouldn't look good if you amputated one of your toes.”
Discovery Page 4
