The Tomorrow File

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Ask Paul Bumford. He knew about it.”

  ‘We shall ask him. Now listen to this tape. ...”

  Again it was my voice. This time explaining to Wiley, Hammond, the DeTilly brothers, et al., how I would manage to remove classified material from the compound at GPA-1.

  I waited until the tape finished. Then exploded. . . .

  “I’ve told you and told you,” I shouted angrily into the air. “I was serving as an undercover agent. It was the only way we could catch them in the act and provide enough evidence to convict.”

  “In the Scilla matter, concerning the crimes of Angela Teresa Berri, you stated you did not take your suspicions to a higher authority because you didn’t know how far her conspiracy extended.”

  “And because all I had were suspicions. No hard evidence.”

  “But that doesn’t hold true for the Society of Obsoletes’ conspiracy, does it? You had more than suspicions in that case. You had hard evidence. A group of terrorists had attempted to suborn you. You had their conversation on tape. With your direct testimony, that would have been sufficient to convict. So why didn’t you take the whole matter to the Bureau of Public Security?”

  “Angela Teresa Berri,” I said. “I did it the way she ordered me to do it.”

  “Angela Teresa Berri is stopped,” he said hollowly, “and cannot testify to that. ”

  “I know,” I groaned, “I know.”

  What irked me, continually, was that what I had done was not all that awful. Illegal yes, but not awful. It had been done, was being done, and would be done by hundreds—thousands of objects in academe, multinational corporations, governments, and so forth. It had been, was being, and would be pillowed or glossed. The world would not falter for it. Good frequently resulted. Why was I being singled out for persecution and punishment? Where was the protection of my rank?

  And all those “activities contrary to the public interest” I was alleged to have committed—why, they were peccadilloes, chaff, compared to my activities beneficial to the public interest. Operation Lewisohn. The overt and covert research projects I had conceived. The public health programs I had initiated. They could change the world! Lessen human pain. Reduce the anguish of future generations. Did my life’s service count for nothing?

  “Now about the Die-Dee Doll. ...”

  “What has that to do with me?”

  “It is manufactured by your father?”

  “That is correct.”

  “It is extremely lovable?”

  “So I understand.”

  “Records indicate that the initial application for a license to manufacture, distribute, and sell the Die-Dee Doll was rejected by your Executive Assistant, Paul Bumford. Is that correct?”

  "At that point in time, he wasn’t my Executive Assistant. He was AssDepDirRad.”

  “But he rejected your father’s application?”

  “Yes.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “The word ‘Die’ in the name. The inclusion of a coffin and tombstone in the doll kit. Other reasons.”

  “Legal reasons?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you overruled Bumford’s decision?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “The Die-Dee Doll is a toy. A plaything. It isn’t all that important.”

  “It isn’t? At the time you overruled Bumford’s decision to disapprove the Die-Dee Doll license, was this before or after your father loaned you the love to purchase Scilla Pharmaceuticals?”

  “What?”

  “Did your father loan you the love to purchase Scilla Pharmaceuticals before or after you had overruled Bumford’s decision to deny him a license to market the Die-Dee Doll?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  The curious thing was that I didn’t remember. I literally could not recall. It bothered me.

  “Listen to this tape. ...”

  My voice again. Babbling to Millie Jean Grunwald. Spilling out my worries and misgivings about a number of classified projects. We had just seen Janet and Eric battle at the Lords Sporting Club. We had returned to Millie’s apartment. Unsatisfactory sex. Then I had talked, talked, talked. To a sleeping Millie. And to the recording machine below in the deserted pom shop.

  “Yes,” I said dully. Although I had not been asked. “That’s my voice.”

  “Why did you tell this unauthorized object of these matters?”

  “Perhaps I was drugged.”

  “Drugged?”

  “It’s possible. At the Lords Sporting Club. In the drinks I bought. Interrogator, there are drugs to make an object speak, contrary to his will.”

  “Who would drug you?”

  “I don’t know. Someone,” I said foolishly.

  “How well did you know the late Arthur Raddo?”

  “I’ve told you, I didn’t know him at all. Never met him.”

  “But you were aware of his existence?”

  "He gave a speech. At a Beist meeting I attended. I told you that, too.”

  “This was the Christmas, 1998, meeting of the Washington, D. C., chapter of the Beists?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mrs. Grace Wingate was there?”

  “Well. . . . Yes, I believe so. She came in later.”

  “Did you speak to her during the evening?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t remember. I spoke to a number of objects that evening.”

  “But not to Arthur Raddo?”

  “No. Definitely not.”

  “Raddo’s mother, in a sworn statement, asserts he had several telephone calls from a friend he called ‘Nick.’ ”

  “So? A lot of ems are named Nick.”

  “Employees of the Adonis Club, in sworn statements, have testified that the late Arthur Raddo was frequently seen on the premises with an em he called ‘Nick.’ An em who answers your description.”

  “A clever manipulation,” I said. “A control em in a terrorist organization is known to Raddo as ‘Nick. ’ The control is approximately my height and weight. He is disguised in wig, false mustache and Vandyke beard. In the dimness of the Adonis Club, he could easily pass as me.”

  “ ‘In the dimness of the Adonis Club’?” he repeated. “How did you know the Adonis Club is dim? Have you been there?”

  “Once.”

  “For what purpose?”

  "After I heard that Raddo had suicided. While in possession of a bottle of—”

  “Yes? A bottle of?”

  “Nothing. It’s not important.”

  “I think we will end this session at this point. We will resume at our afternoon session.”

  Back in Room 317. Voice No. 1 caroled, “Your fresh paper sheets will be up shortly.”

  “You go to hell,” I screamed into the air.

  “Dr. Flair!” Voice No. 1 said. Shocked.

  “About the five cc flask found in the hand of the suicided Arthur Raddo,” the Interrogator said that afternoon.

  “Yes?” I said. “What about it?”

  “You stated it was the reason you went to the Adonis Club.”

  “Well, goddamn it, it was!”

  “Soothe yourself,” Voice No. 2 said unctuously. “Soothe yourself. Take it easy. Take all the time you need. Just tell me exactly what happened.”

  It all came pouring out of me. Spluttered. It was a plot. A skillfully structured scenario. Of long duration. I had been manipulated. I told the Interrogator of finding the partially empty flask of Clostridium botulinum. My own name forged to the withdrawal card.

  “Why didn’t you go to the Bureau of Public Security immediately?”

  "I thought I could discover the instigator. I didn’t know how high the conspiracy extended.”

  Then, I said, when I heard of the 5 cc flask found with the suicided Arthur Raddo, I rechecked the GPA-1 pharmacology library. The entire bottle was missing. So I had replaced it. With a flask of pure glycerol. I needed time. Time to compute. Ti
me to attempt to determine the connection between Arthur Raddo and the ongoing conspiracy to destroy me.

  “So your letter to R. Sam Bigelow, stating you had verified the existence of the original deposit of 416HBL-CW3 by personal inspection—your own phrase: ‘by personal inspection’—that statement was, in fact, false and misleading?”

  “No, no,” I protested. “Not at all. Not false and misleading. Simply inoperative.”

  “And you say you concealed this vital information from higher authority because of your desire to uncover the plot to destroy you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And who did you imagine was the creator of this plot?”

  “I hypothesize a terrorist organization. Perhaps the remnants of the Society of Obsoletes’ conspiracy.”

  “That Society was canceled. All the members were taken.”

  “Not all of them,” I said triumphantly. “Angela Berri allowed some of them to exist, to continue their activities. It’s a common enough ploy. So she could keep them under surveillance. So they might lead her to other members, more important members, of whom she was not aware.”

  “A very ingenious explanation. Do you have any proof that this was, indeed, the intention of Angela Teresa Berri?”

  “No proof, no. But it’s obvious, isn’t it? And they singled me out for revenge for the part I had played in erasing Wiley, Hammond, Lydia Ann Ferguson, and the others. It all synthesizes. It all computes.”

  Silence. I knew I wasn’t convincing him. Worse, I wasn't convincing myself.

  “Look, Interrogator,” I said. As calmly as I could. “What possible reason could I have for becoming involved in the structuring of that botulism outbreak in GPA-11? Remember, I was the object who went to the Chief Director and the Bureau of Public Security Chief and told them about aerobic botulinum. Doesn’t that prove I wasn’t involved in it?”

  “Not necessarily,” he boomed.

  “Well, what possible motive could I have for such illogical actions?”

  “You have the reputation of being an ambitious em.”

  “So? A lot of objects are ambitious. It’s characterological of intelligence.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time an ambitious object had artfully planned and executed a crime, using a cat’s-paw as the actual perpetrator, and then assisted in the solution of that crime. To earn praise for his talent. To earn commendation from his rulers. Advancement in rank.”

  “That’s nonsense!” I shouted.

  During the final week of interrogation, I cannot say my mood was serene. I was deeply troubled; I cannot deny it. I knew quite well what was at stake. Me. But I did not panic, except for a few brief occasions when the Interrogator’s engorged voice was not to be endured. I approached the interrogation sessions with trepidation. Not because of the questions I might be asked. But in anticipation of being subjected, once again, to those overcooked tones that flowed from the ceiling loudspeaker and seemed to fill the room.

  What preserved my sanity, at that point in time, was my selfesteem. I do not know why a strong, healthy ego is generally held in such ill repute. In the circumstances in which I found myself, my vanity was my salvation.

  I know many neuropsychiatrists believe that character is the psychosis we show to the world. And that the slyly contrived conception each of us has of himself is the psyche’s defense mechanism against despair and madness. All this may be operative. But it is, I think, beside the point.

  All I know is that I functioned in such a manner as not to degrade my vision of myself. I might tolerate the pity, or scorn, or loathing of others. I could never endure my own pity, scorn, loathing.

  “And was it also part of this ‘secret conspiracy’ that you allegedly commanded your servers to inflict grievous bodily harm upon the corpus of a security officer of the US Government? To wit, deliberately break the arm of one Art Roach?”

  “Are you humoring me, Interrogator?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “As I’ve told you many times, the Art Roach scenario had nothing to do with the plot against me. Breaking his arm was the simplest way to procure evidence of the corrupt dealings of Angela Teresa Berri. It succeeded brilliantly. As soon as the evidence was obtained, I took it directly to Theodore Seidensticker III, of the Chief Director’s staff.”

  “You told him about breaking Roach’s arm?”

  “I did not. He had no need to know.”

  “I see.”

  “Are you drugging me, Interrogator?”

  “Drugging you? How would we drug you?”

  “In my food. My tap water.”

  “Have you detected any drug?”

  “No, but it may be something new. With no gross symptoms. A drug to make me talk.”

  “Surely you’d know about a drug like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “No,” I said. “Not if I had no need to know.”

  I may have cackled then.

  I think, in my continual computation of my dilemma, the factor I found most difficult to integrate into the overall equation was the role of Chief Director Michael Wingate. I could not believe he was unaware of my predicament. My absence would certainly have been noted by Paul Bumford and by other friends and associates. The CD could hardly be in ignorance of my whereabouts. A brief phone call or message could have freed me. “To be released for the benefit of the public.” But the command never arrived. I could not account for it. Until the final interrogative session. . . .

  We had been reviewing, once again, the actions I had taken to effectualize the purchase of Scilla Pharmaceuticals in San Diego. And the precise amount of love I received on the final sale, above and beyond the original purchase price and my expenses.

  Then, at the end of the session, a totally new subject was introduced. I was immediately cautious.

  “Did you ever meet the late President Harold K. Morse?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many times?”

  “On one occasion.”

  “And that was?”

  “He called me to the White House for a short conversation after he had scanned a paper I had published.”

  “What was the subject of your published paper?”

  “On the nature of genius.”

  “You never saw him again?”

  “Not until he stopped.”

  “Ah, yes. You were, were you not, a member of a committee of physicians appointed to investigate the stopping of President Morse?”

  “That is correct.”

  “And this committee, of which you were a member, then filed a report. Which was immediately classified top secret.”

  “Ultrasecret.”

  “Very well, ultrasecret. That document has never been declassified. It is still ultrasecret.”

  “So?”

  “I will now ask you a question concerning that classified document. Consider carefully before answering. The question is this: Have you ever divulged the existence, contents, meaning, or conclusion of that document to any object unauthorized to receive such information?”

  My reply was prompt.

  “No,” I said. “Never.”

  “This interrogation is now concluded,” the Interrogator boomed. Fruity voice burbling. “Remove the object.”

  I waited until I was back in Room 317 before I let myself compute the significance of the final question I had been asked. I lay supine upon the paper sheet, hands behind my head. I stared upward at the ceiling vent.

  “Did you have an interesting session, Dr. Flair?” Voice No. 1 asked softly.

  “Yes, thank you. Very interesting. I think if you don’t mind, I’ll skip dinner tonight.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Dr. Flair, we can’t do that. The food must be brought to your room. If you choose not to eat, that’s your decision, of course. But we must make it available. Regulations, you know. ”

  “All right. Bring it up.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Flair.”

  “Thank you."

  The reason Chief Director M
ichael Wingate had not intervened in the proceedings against me now seemed evident: He was aware of my relations with his wife. The final question revealed that.

  I had told only one object on earth of my service on the committee to investigate the stopping of President Harold K. Morse. That object was Grace Wingate. At our last meeting. If the Interrogator had brought up the subject, it could only mean that he had evidence of my imprudence.

  The fact that he had saved the subject for the final question in the concluding interrogative session, and then had delved no deeper following my denial, convinced me that the question had been intended to serve as a signal. The Chief Director was notifying me that he was aware of my interactions with Grace, and he was abandoning me. Turning his back. Walking away. Leaving me to my destiny.

  There was no other explanation for that brief question. “/ know,” the Chief Director had said, in effect, “and now you know that I know.”

  I experienced, I admit, an initial terror. But other objects had stopped, and so should I, and so shall you. I consoled myself with that, as best I might, and resolved to act in such a manner as not to tarnish my conception of who and what I was. If self-esteem had betrayed me into seeking revenge on Angela Berri, and led to my downfall, then self-esteem would, at least, enable me to stop with as much courage and dignity possible under the dismal circumstances.

  My evening meal was brought and placed on the table.

  “Proveal,” the guard reported. “Propots and some kind of white slimy stuff for dessert. Looks good.”

  “Thank you, Princess,” I said.

  The steel door clanged shut behind her. I didn’t even rise to inspect the plastic tray with its plastic plates of plastic food. I lay on my back, watching the light fade. The darkness move in. Then I computed a problem that had to be faced.

  If the Chief Director knew of my love for his wife, knew I had told her of my service on the Morse Committee, then our meetings in the safe place, in our secret garden, had been shared. Or she had betrayed me. One or the other.

  It was possible, of course, that she had been forced to speak. But I didn’t think it likely that Michael Wingate would do that to his wife. No, she had either spoken voluntarily, or our love had been shared, recorded, made a matter of dossiers and investigative projects. Even in that empty, deserted garden, sharing would not have been especially difficult.