Wintoon's smile grew cool and distant. He hadn't thought in such terms for years, he replied, but he guessed not. Ramsay asked if the name Cody Martin rang any bells; Wintoon said no, but he knew hardly anyone at field agent level these days. Was Martin one of the retired spooks he'd met at some high-level seminar?
I gather it's a beard anyway, Ramsay said, without mentioning the Alden connection, and reached inside his jacket. The guy sent this to me in care of the Overseas Press Club. It works, he shrugged.
Good cutout for sensitive information, Wintoon nodded, accepting the folded paper, tugging a set of half-glasses from a pocket. He read without visible reaction for a few moments, then glanced over the tops of his glasses with an exaggerated lift of both eyebrows.
Ramsay knew that sign. One raised eyebrow equaled clear skepticism; both raised meant dangerous ground. He watched the old man sit down, attention riveted on what he read, scratching absently at loose folds of skin at his throat.
Wintoon read to the end, then swiveled in his chair and gazed across the building tops of Washington for some time. Then: Kalvin, he muttered, and his smile was accusing. I watched your 'True Believer' commentary, Alan. This is such a pat answer, all aside from the, ah...
Wacko element?
Well-a sendup, perhaps.
Goering burned the Reichstag. Hess escaped Germany with a piece of luggage that was never found or explained, and the Sovs let him rot in Spandau. Walter Kalvin was in Air Force Intelligence in Germany and speaks fluent German, did you know that?
Wintoon shook his head, his gaze expectant.
Kalvin is bright, nobody denies that; but how many guys get a degree in rhetoric and then a second one in electronics? Takes extra courses in psychoacoustics, then spends a few years gimmicking bad music for teenyboppers in a recording studio?
Facts?
In his bio, Ramsay shrugged. Then got a latino elected mayor of L.A., maybe for practice, and finally showed up joined to Harrison Rand like a Siamese twin before Rand made his political bid in Missouri. Now this accusation turns up in the secret files of a murdered Undersecretary of State. You see why I've got sweaty palms? Wintoon's face was now a study in impassivity, carefully noncommittal. Ramsay took the letter back, folded it, and continued, This guy Martin wrote to me because of my big mouth on NBN. I need a face-to-face with him, and somebody to pass this on to while I'm still healthy. You'd know whether I should hit on somebody-cabinet member, one of the Joint Chiefs-who?
Wintoon had always given clear signals when reluctant to pursue a topic. This time, he promised pursuit at his own rarefied levels, and also promised a reply. The old man ended by reassuring Ramsay: however high the pile of evidence, it was all circumstantial. A real connection between the murder of Richard Parker and the clout of Walter Kalvin was a million-to-one shot. Not to worry, Alan.
Ramsay hurried downstairs with Wintoon, agreeing as they parted that they must keep in closer touch, assuring Wintoon that little Laurie was indeed becoming a young lady. Alan Ramsay would have embraced his mentor had he suspected that this might be the last time he would ever clasp the hand of the old warrior-savant.
After feeding the Wintoon interview tape into his active files at the studios, Ramsay sought more high-tech expertise on Highjump. His third call turned up a civilian analyst at the nearby Naval Observatory who was willing to give him an interview. The best time would be tomorrow, Saturday afternoon, when the major activity on the site was a basic youth tour-a new public relations gambit stressing the excitement of space development. Ramsay agreed; rang off wondering how he would shoehorn the interview into his weekend with Laurie, and suddenly realized his windfall. Moments later, he had Kathleen on the telephone.
Nothing to do with military stuff, he objected to Kathleen's objection. Basic astronomy, science, orbital industry. We both know Laurie's a little pacifist, thanks to you. Why not let her decide whether she wants to go?
There were blonde voices and brunette voices, he thought, and for a blonde, Kathleen had a very dark voice when provoked. Why not help her decide, you mean.
For a parent, it's no felony. You know how I feel, Kathleen.
You bet I do, you feel with both hands. Not too bad for an old lecher, if memory serves. Here it came; at the damnedest times, but not unwelcome.
Uh, you could get served, maybe serviced is more like it, tonight, and I could stay over and take Laurie tomor-
Busy tonight, she said quickly. Kathleen always resorted to quick telegraphic phrases when hoping to pass over something. A date, no doubt, with some schmuck she wouldn't let into bed. But she'd dazzle him, get herself primed, and then use Ramsay to pump her empty a day later.
Well, it could be worse; the other way around, for example. So when can I be of service, madame?
She took the cue, saying she would play the madame on Saturday night, and he jollied her into putting Laurie on the phone extension, feeling as if he'd peddled his cock for the privilege. Then Laurie came on-line, faintly surly as usual when he hadn't called for a day or so. All right, three days. Is that a crime? He knew that in Laurie's statutes, it was. Hi, pudd'n. How would you like a live multimedia show after lunch tomorrow?
If you have time, she said, making him come to her.
He did: Pudd'n, I couldn't call earlier, he slurred, courting the damn kid with kid talk, powerless with his own daughter. Then he invented a reason for not calling, a story so patently and transparently false that Laurie was soon giggling, helping him invent it. By then, he knew that Laurie would be stumping her plump eleven-year-old buns off at the U.S. Naval Observatory the next day, while he ducked out for half an hour to tape an interview.
And by then, as weekend traffic began to clog highway arterials in the nation's capital, Professor T. Broeck Wintoon had begun to inquire about the Martin letter; very cautious, wise inquiries near the very top of the old-boy network, although he knew that caution and wisdom are pale qualities in the beam of raw power.
Kalvin, who seldom put in less than a twelve-hour day between the White House and this office he had requisitioned on the third floor of the Executive Office Building, was not surprised when his own secretary's chime sounded on his desk intercom at seven p.m. Millicent knew better than to leave before he did. The surprise was that this particular caller was standing in her office.
Certainly, let him in, Millie. Oh, I'll lock up tonight. I'll bet you've got some man waiting. You be on time Monday, he added.
Thank you, sir, was the dulcet response. Millie might be as unlovely as snow tries, but she had a voice cultured by generations of Virginians and she knew when she was being told to get lost. The door snicked and Kalvin stood up as his caller walked in.
The first thing Kalvin said was, Was this wise? You could have called by scrambler.
Not for this, Unruh said, sitting down unbidden as though made of some brittle substance. Terminal action always takes a face-to-face, Walt.
Have a drink? You're looking good, Kalvin remarked, turning toward his ornate bar cabinet.
I look like the wrath of God and you know it, said the CIA deputy. This fucking hairpiece doesn't fit, and I wonder why I let them do the chemotherapy anyhow. Nothing for me, thanks, he waved the notion aside as Kalvin raised a bottle aloft.
What's this about terminal action? Kalvin asked, dropping ice into his scotch, sitting down with robotic precision. Privately he admitted that Terry Unruh looked like bloody hell, his blonde hairpiece failing to match the remaining wisps of gray at his ears, the lank frame more cadaverous each time he saw the man. But Unruh knew how to keep a bargain, staying on the job as long as he could stand up, satisfied with the weekly deposits to the Bermuda bank because they would serve as a magnificent widow's pension.
One of my colleagues sent a rocket up my arse not a half-hour ago. There's an ex-Company man, an academic near retirement, zeroing in on Parker and connecting us with him. I don't know the old boy's source.
His posture frozen, Kalvin said it as a simple
fact: We have to find out. Fast.
Apparently the old fellow hinted that major media is asking. He knows everybody in this town so it could be anybody.
Shit. Just when we think we've put a lid on it, Kalvin said into his glass. Okay: you must have a cure, or you wouldn't be here.
You could call it a cure: surgery. I have the scalpel en route from Quebec. Foreign, plausibly deniable, and a very, very subtle interrogator. Doesn't leave marks. Unruh cocked his head, regarding Kalvin without pleasure: Did you know that the most terrifying thing a man can feel is slow asphyxiation? Utter panic sets in, you have to see it to-
That's enough, said Kalvin. You do what you have to, and so do I.
I wonder about that, Unruh murmured.
Wonder and be damned, said Kalvin, so long as you provide for your family, and that means providing a few things for me. He took a long appreciative sip. Do I know your, ah, expendable academic?
A shrug. Name's Wintoon; moderately strong profile in some circles. But we may be looking at some really high profiles, maybe in media.
For that you have to bring in an outsider?
Some things the Company can do. Some, it subcontracts to certain provider groups. A few things, the Company just doesn't condone, and my assets on this are three people, four if you count this Canadian mercenary, because you wanted to keep it small and manageable. The Quebec scalpel does things nobody wants to know about, but you can bet two things. He'll be sanitary, and he won't terminate the interview until he gets all there is to get,
Unruh said in tones that were dead flat. I can call it off, of course. I'm here to get your orders.
Kalvin studied the features of the dying Unruh through the flat facets of his glass. The pale face remained mask-like, but Walter Kalvin felt a sudden intuition about what was going on behind that mask as Unruh, with the effort of an exhausted man, stood up. Terence Unruh would probably much rather terminate Kalvin himself than have it done to some doddering old onetime spook. Then do what's necessary, Terry. Just make absolutely certain you get to the root of this. We can't start laying waste to everybody in Washington. And get back to me as soon as you have the results of the, um, operation. By scrambler. I'll be here.
Unruh nodded; turned toward the door.
Oh, and Terry? The man stopped at Kalvin's words, twisting at the waist as if too tired to take extra steps. Don't come here again. You do look like the wrath of God, that's a fact. You take away a man's appetite.
Thank you very much, your Excellency, said Unruh as he moved through the doorway.
Alone, Kalvin tapped his teeth against the edge of his glass and checked his watch. He'd have time for a good dinner, something light with a sparkling wine, maybe pick up a historical novel from the Waldenbooks place on the mall, and then return to the office. He felt certain that even Unruh's deniable scalpel would not be operating at full speed before dark.
SIX
Late in the evening, Ramsay hauled a snack from the kitchen microwave unit and took it back to his half-read book in Laurie's room, which doubled as his study since the divorce. He'd had the choice of a ballet, a party, or an evening with the book. A good party outranked most books, but not the three G's, Goddard, Goldman and Greenleaf; and a leg man with Ramsay's eye would only have been frustrated by ballerinas. He picked up the Goddard paperback and succumbed to its sinister influence, and cursed himself for jumping when the phone jangled at his elbow.
Yes, he said, giving nothing away. Then: Did the station give you this number?-I did?-Oh, right, I did, he agreed, suddenly beaming. Damned right he had, not expecting her to call. That party at Ynga Lindermann's over a month before; he'd seen Pamela Garza among public relations people a couple of times but never knew her name until that party. Well, now.... No, Pam, I really meant it. Soccer's a favorite of mine, give me the Diplomats over the Redskins any day.''
Pam Garza sounded more sunny and less smoky than she looked, if his memory was accurate. I have passes to watch this Bolivian guy's try-outs with the Dips. Very hush-hush, she said, tentatively, almost shyly, with a soft southwest drawl.
Don't miss it, he advised, and listened for a moment. Me? Uh, yeah, love to. And I'll spring for a bite to eat afterward, quid pro quo-so long as I don't have to wear a tie. Why the hell do I always have to say dumb things like that?
It's a deal, she laughed. Tomorrow afternoon at three.
Wups. No, wait, we can make it if you don't mind a third party. My kid, Laurie; she spends alternate weekends with me.
There's always another woman, she said with a theatrical sigh. Actually, I'd be honored, Alan. We can meet at RFK Stadium, main entrance, they said. Marvelous, she added. He had been about to say that himself.
Ramsay thanked her and put the phone down near the fake poppies on the desk-Laurie's present, her 'forever flowers,' a false gaity to brighten the room she had vacated. Hell, he muttered, suddenly remembering that he'd promised Kathleen a therapeutic lay on Saturday night. But Pamela Garza was not likely to be in the picture after dinner, certainly not with Laurie in tow. Whatthehell. If this lovely southwest praline got him excited, Kathleen would be the beneficiary. Titty for tatty. He picked up the Goddard, smiling, and congratulated himself for staying home that night.
Saturday began well when he drove to Kathleen's place, she smirking sexily and mistaking his guilty look-he said nothing about gorgeous Garza-for restrained lust as they shared herb tea in her Georgetown condo. God damn but he hated herb tea! Ramsay wondered if there was any better tip-off to the belief that all nations truly wanted freedom, peace, and equality than a weakness for frigging herb tea. He was too canny to wonder out loud. Kathleen wore smart gray slacks and low heels, knowing he liked skirts and high heels, probably certain that he was a conquest regardless of what she wore.
Then Laurie whirlwinded down from her room with a single overnight bag, scissored her legs around his waist as he lifted her, smothered him with an innocent, frantic kiss-kiss, and all but dragged him out of the condo. Her blonde ponytail was the same, but the apple cheeks were losing some baby fat and she was growing relentlessly taller. In two years, he joked with Kathleen, the kid would need a steamer trunk for a weekend and would take her majesty's sweet time coming down a flight of stairs.
You always liked a girl to take her time, said Kathleen, reaching slender arms overhead in a languid stretch that tightened the fabric over her breasts.
He laughed, advising her to hold that thought, while Laurie tugged him toward the Genie.
Saturday seemed to get better when, after shopping, he left Laurie with a harried tour guide at the Naval Observatory. Because the analyst, a dour Carolinian from Scotland Neck, gave a hell of an interview with hand-held models at his desk. A Highjump vehicle, he showed, was dedicated to a very special orbit to serve the space station. The laser-boost needed accumulated energy and could not cycle the vehicles much faster than one every hour; a possible weapon against one target, but wholly impractical as a mass bombardment system. Ramsay put away his video recorder and went to find Laurie's tour group, feeling better about Highjump and world peace as well.
Laurie, ponytail swinging, bounced away with him to the parking lot, chattering of her new-found interest. Joo know, Dad, I could kick a ball a mile on the moon?
Did you know, pudd'n, that we barely have time for a slice of pizza before you watch the Diplomats try out a new forward from Bolivia who can probably kick a soccer ball clean around the moon? She squealed with delight. Despite Kathleen's best efforts to make Laurie intolerant of any kind of violence, the girl played grade-school soccer with the total abandon of a mounted Cossack.
As she wolfed pizza, Ramsay fed her the itinerary, carefully casual when he mentioned Pam Garza. Laurie could bridle at the idea of his keeping company with strange women. Breeding will tell, he thought. She's a natural competitor, like her old man.
He let Laurie toot the Genie's horn in the Mass Ave underpass and, near Union Station, noticed a dun Ford Probe behind him. Hadn't h
e seen one just like it in the parking lot of the pizza joint? A Probe lacked the visual pizazz and the nitrous oxide injection kick of his Genie, but with the right equipment it was one hell of a machine; maybe the best choice you could make when trailing a maneuverable Genie in traffic.
He waltzed the yellow Genie through the congestion onto Independence, grimly aware that the Probe was still visible in his rearview. He refused to change his plans, drove to the huge lot of RFK Stadium, and saw the Probe commit to the bridge leading to Capitol Heights. Someone had a map unfolded in the passenger seat; almost certainly tourists. Or passing for tourists. Stop it, fool, he chided himself. They'll be chasing you with a butterfly net any day now.
At first sight of Pamela Garza, Laurie slitted her eyes as if keying on a goalie. Black loafers, denim skirt, high-collar white cotton blouse of a silken sheen almost as sleek as Pam's long black hair which she wore in a loose bun. Her dark eyes shining under luxuriant brow arches, Pam traded a smiling glance with Ramsay that suggested she would take a child's jealousy with aplomb.
Dean Ing - Silent Thunder Page 5
