Dean Ing - Silent Thunder

by Silent Thunder(lit)

  He made his deadlines at the studio, complained that his Seiko had developed cardiac arrest, and called his own apartment knowing that Pam would play the message back-and that others would hear it. Running late, he said, thanks to a screwed-up wristwatch, and he'd be home by eight or so.

  At exactly five after seven by his flawless Seiko, he walked into the Rexall. The clerk was a wiry dark-haired man in his thirties, an inch or so less than six feet, who fitted his surroundings like Tums and aspirin. He was glad to help and my, but that face seemed familiar. Ramsay admitted his name, kept his casual role, and asked to see something reliable in a watch; maybe a Timex?

  With nary a wink or nudge, the clerk produced two Longines and an electronic Timex. Ramsay studied each. The clerk remained maddeningly offhanded and made no suggestions. Ramsay turned the Timex over. The price of this one?

  You're in luck. This one's a closeout at thirty-nine ninety-five. Something to do with all those special functions, the clerk replied.

  Ramsay realized again that he might actually be carrying a tiny transmitter on himself. I'll take the Timex, he said, and paid cash.

  The clerk made change, smiled, and said to the retreating Ramsay, I expect it's one of your better bargains. Ramsay, with the discomfort of a man who has inexplicably wandered into a staged play, hurried out.

  The damned thing seemed to be an ordinary Timex, if you ignored the tiny bar that lay flat on its underside. He slipped it on, thrust the Seiko into his glove compartment, and drove home while aiming the new watch at various parts of his body. Either he was free of bugs, or the watch was faulty. Too bad he couldn't show it to Pam. Odd, he thought, that it could make him feel so much better when, so far, all it had told him was the correct time.

  Because Pam was waiting for him at his apartment, he made no overt effort to check the place for monitors, but soon realized the Mantis worked because it gently poked him several times while he was in the kitchen. He felt a surge of anger about that, but knew a fierce elation as well.

  When Pam left his apartment the next morning, he began to use the Mantis with great care. The thing was highly directional in its ability to pick up signals from an active transmitter.

  He found the first bug, after a puzzling fifteen minutes, in a crack of cabinetry between his dishwasher and countertop. It lay very near his kitchen phone. He found the second one faster by marching directly to the study and waving his wrist near the desk phone. The tiny device looked more like a furry tick than a seed, and had been planted in the center of one of Laurie's 'forever' poppies. It had lain in full view, had heard every word spoken in his study, for-how long? Had the bastards bugged him even before Laurie's kidnap?

  Now his elation was gone. A gradually building ferocity, held in careful check, was all that remained. It did not diminish much during his workday, and he sought a pay phone soon after lunch. The recorded message suggested he call after three p.m. and at one minute after, by his bargain Timex, he called again.

  The westerner came on-line immediately. Did you find anything of interest, Mr. R.?

  Damn' right. Nothing on me personally, but I found two little gadgets near my home phones. God damn these people, I've never even seen them!

  Oh, you've seen one of them, all right. We're monitoring your little hotsy, Mr. R. I don't know how long you've known Miz G., but she's working for the other side. That's why I suggested checking your body. She probably carries more bugs than Typhoid Mary.

  The briefest silence before a gritted, I'll kill her....

  They'd love that, said the man. She thinks she's a patriotic American keeping tabs on a man who needs watching, and I doubt you could prove otherwise to her. If it's any consolation, we gather she's sick over your, um, babysitting arrangements. Her chief sin seems to be naivet‚. Keep playing her game, but don't let her lead you into any dark alleys; it's possible they could change their game plan about you.

  Look, I don't give a shit about my hide anymore. If my kid were safe, I'd blow this whole thing in the media and take the consequences.

  Not yet! The reply was instant; explosive. Eventually that's just what we'd like to see but these people have a timetable and we still aren't sure why. And if you hurt them too soon, they'd hurt you back a lot worse. And you'd blow our show.

  Ramsay, with sudden suspicion: And what is your show, pal?

  It's still called the United States of America, I believe. If we're patient, it may stay that way.

  Ramsay grunted assent and changed his tack. I had a call today from a lieutenant in the Metro Police. He admits they're monitoring my phone. Whose side are those guys on?

  Yours, apparently, but they can't help much. And if they get lucky, it could be bad news for your daughter.

  What are the chances I'll see her alive again? He hated to ask. He had to ask.

  About fifty-fifty, said the westerner. Getting better as they keep her longer and get more confident. Your lady friend's contacts must be through her job because she's not getting them at her apartment. With luck, we just might be able to backtrack those calls. If we can, someone may lead us to your little girl.

  Is that really one of your priorities?

  A moment's pause, and now something in the man's tone became less commanding, more intimate; sadder, perhaps. There's an old Greek physician's code that says, 'first, do no harm,' he said. That little girl's troubles began with a decision of ours. We're ethically bound to help free her, you have to believe that. No, you don't have to, do you? Those last few words had been spoken as if Ramsay himself had already answered.

  I think you're starting to see how I feel, Ramsay said.

  I don't blame you, but I can't do much about-

  Hell you can't. I do a lot of legwork on my own, pal, and I meet lots of people; informants, interviews, that sort of thing. Why not meet me face to face?

  Now the man's tones were plainly apologetic. Because if somebody gets you in a spot with needles under your fingernails, the less you know, the better. But your point is taken. Meanwhile, remember: if we do get your daughter back, the instant the bad guys know it, they'll be trying to nail you before you can get to a TV studio. I don't want you to have any false hopes about that.

  The only hopes I have are pinned on an eleven-year-old pacifist, pal. I won't see her for a month, they said.

  A month? Exactly? Why a month?

  I don't know, Ramsay said. I hoped you might.

  Maybe we do need a sit-down, Mr. R. But this call has already gone on too long. Get back to me; and stay friendly with your hotsy, but keep checking yourself for bugs, okay?

  Right, Ramsay answered, and hung up, now more perplexed than before. His allies seemed as curious about that one-month time span as he was.

  ELEVEN

  At dusk, ten days after the kidnapping, Robert Lathrop parked his rumbling old Firebird two blocks from the suburban home of his real boss, set its alarm, locked the door, and tugged at the vest of his gray three piece suit before walking smartly away with his attache case. In his vest pocket were cards that introduced him, truthfully, as a salesman of household computers. Beneath the vest and the silk shirt was a gut as hard and flat as Nautilus machines could make it, with the help of steroids. If challenged, Lathrop could have produced brochures from the attache case, and pocket memocomps at very attractive prices. Lathrop made most of his money that way, letting his fine physique, those moist brown eyes and the well-scrubbed fresh features do much of the selling for him.

  But Bobby Lathrop did not think of that as his 'real' job. His real job put a small submachine gun in his hands, and put him back into the kind of power that a police internal affairs investigation had taken him out of, years before. No police commissioner can afford a disarming, glib young sociopath in the ranks, if he knows about it; especially a bright one. The kind of man who can afford a Lathrop is the kind whose budget can be fudged, and who has ways of learning when a Bobby Lathrop has been found and bounced. Such a man had found Lathrop. Bobby's smile, as he ski
pped up the front steps of Terence Unruh's home, was unforced.

  The door opened for him and Bobby strode in, with a dazzling smile for Unruh who seemed, in the dim light of an unlit living room, much older than he had been a week before. Take a seat, Bobby. Beer? Iced tea?

  Nothing, thanks. Mind if I smoke?

  It hardly matters now, Unruh said, and sank carefully into an overstuffed chair near Bobby. Quit looking around; my wife and the kids are at a school play. We're secure.

  Bobby, with the highest respect for Unruh's security sense, visibly relaxed, pulling a set of pages from his case before he lit the Winston. Transcripts from Ramsay's phone.

  Unruh took them. Any other copies?

  No, sir, Bobby assured him, grinning again. Jondahl's tape transcriptions are there too. Johnnie's as steady as a bitch wolf.''

  Bitch wolves aren't queer for pups, said Unruh.

  Bobby's jaw twitched. It had been a mistake to tell Terence Unruh so much about the habits of Johnnie, beyond her dependability, and doubly a mistake to crack explicit jokes about the Ramsay kid's captivity. Well, Reba Jondahl can't be charmed by kids and she won't balk at stringent measures, said Bobby. When we're this short-handed, we're lucky to have somebody like Johnnie that we can depend on.

  After a pause, tiredly: I suppose.

  Bobby thought the phrase, sighed like that as if by a defeated man, out of character for Unruh. But Unruh looked out of character, as if the thankless job of government-whichever part of it he really represented-had finally caught up with him, aging him a year for every week. No wonder he keeps the lights off, Bobby thought. If you want things simplified, Bobby said, and paused to make his cigarette glow, let me get creative with Ramsay. Household accidents kill a lot of people, Terence.

  Ramsay has almost certainly written down what he knows and put it in a safe deposit box, Unruh said, his voice soft, lacking vitality. We want him just the way he is.

  Indefinitely? Why?

  A month. And I don't know exactly why, Bobby. I just follow orders.

  But if I intercept anything that says Ramsay's going to spill something big-is the sanction still good?

  Of course, said Unruh. Just don't hurt that bimbo, Garza, in the process. Someone very high up wants her healthy.

  Small wonder, Bobby Lathrop snickered, and flexed his arms. I could use her healthy myself.

  Another sigh from Unruh. I'm sure you could. Which reminds me: if Ramsay goes down for whatever reason, at that moment there's no longer any reason for Reba Jondahl to keep the girl. Get the girl away from that crazy butch immediately after that. Is that clear?

  Yessir, Bobby said quickly, brightly. He saw no point in adding that Johnnie, whom he had busted when he was in uniform and had gotten to know better since, was far more valuable than any snot-nosed kid. Johnnie's features and voice were much too distinctive for even the dullest child to forget or confuse with anyone else. Therefore, the Ramsay kid would be 'taken away' by Johnnie's own hands, just as Bobby Lathrop had already promised the woman. He would simply report the girl missing.

  Bobby spent only five more minutes in the Unruh home, accepting a well-used bundle of cash and swapping his phone scrambler attachment for another. It was important, Unruh insisted, that the Garza woman keep Bobby advised on her movements. There was no telling when she might need new instructions from Bobby, and Unruh was hardly in a position to contact her himself because, for one thing, she had never heard of Unruh.

  Bobby left feeling that, for some reason, Terence Unruh did not want him to linger. Almost, Bobby thought, as if he was unwelcome in the Unruh home. That was okay with Bobby, so long as their job relationship remained. Other people might fret over friendships. Not Bobby.

  No, sir.

  That night Laurie thought she was caught, for sure. She had let another batch of her play-tea percolate into the tin can she used as a teapot, and poured it into the cup she'd made from a smaller can. Johnnie had turned off the lamp to save its batteries so that the only light came from the fireplace and the little TV the woman was watching. Then, as she'd done several times before, Laurie moved to the raised hearth and slid the half-filled cup past the glass front and near glowing coals.

  But Johnnie was watching. What the hell're you doing?

  Laurie jerked, then covered her guilty motion by sticking two fingers in her mouth. Nuthin'. You made me burn myself, she mumbled.

  Don't tell me 'nothing,' Laurel. Johnnie stood up and left the TV to stare at the tin cup. What's that?

  Now Laurie cowered in real fear-but she often did, with good reason. I'm, uh, I was just boiling tea.

  Johnnie squatted at the hearth, squinting into the heat, and saw the clear 'tea' begin to boil around the cup's edge. Then, as Laurie stared, the woman grasped the cup by the neatly bent metal handle, with scorched adhesive tape Laurie had salvaged to cover the sharp metal edges. Suspiciously, Johnnie swirled the contents. Then, suddenly, she spilled some of it onto live coals and moved back as if expecting a sudden flareup.

  It's just play tea, Laurie said as the coals hissed.

  Uh-huh. Thought it might be cooking oil, Johnnie said, the threat implicit, watching steam hiss from the coals. Without another word, Johnnie returned to the TV and Laurie repositioned the cup. Soon it would be time for the nightly news, and then for Laurie's report on it.

  Presently, after most of the water had boiled away, Laurie's trembling fingers retrieved the cup. She moved back to her pathetic little tea set and began to slurp noisily. Not the stuff she had been percolating through wood ash and then boiled down, of course, but the other cup with plain cold water. Laurie had learned more at camp than mere basic woodcraft.

  She'd learned how settlers made soap, too.

  TWELVE

  The Smithsonian's air and space museum seemed an odd place, Ramsay thought, for his first meeting with an ally. But below those huge exhibits, where historic aircraft hung like the predatory toys of giants, sprawled a basement where a man could get lost, assuming he was allowed down there. Ramsay had to show his ID twice before he could descend into those depths, and consulted his memocomp after taking a wrong turn.

  He found the door labeled FILM ARCHIVES at last, walked through with his video equipment, and greeted a graying woman whose smile was at first perfunctory, but widened as she recognized his face. She checked his credentials anyway. It's very unusual, but you're cleared into the archives, she told him. That makes two at once. Very unusual, she muttered again to herself as she ushered Ramsay into a tomb-like space with multiple aisles stretching away between ceiling-high shelves. He saw the man with the ancient can of sixteen millimeter film immediately, but the man did not look up until the door had closed.

  As the man turned, Ramsay's first impression was of a swarthy farm hand in expensive slacks, perhaps part mestizo; straight longish black hair, prominent cheeks, corded forearms sticking out from half-rolled sleeves and, in a jarring note, gossamer white nylon gloves. He stood and extended a hand, seeing Ramsay's gaze on the gloves. Just protective coloration, Mr. Ramsay, he said as they shook hands, and Ramsay recognized the voice. This old nitrate film is delicate stuff. People dart in here every so often, but it's as secure as a missile silo. Remarkable what you can do with the right lodge handshake, isn't it? Call me Tom; Tom Cusick; but if you're more comfortable with a name you know, make it Cody Martin. Both street names. Cusick had a face that could smile and squint at the same time, as though sharing a joke with someone a mile away.

  I'm Alan, or Al if you want to bug me, Ramsay said, and took the vacant chair. Speaking of bugs, I'm clean. He brandished the wrist with the false Timex. And thanks. Forgive me for coming right to the point, but anything new on my daughter?

  No; sorry. A one beat pause. We have a probable contact, maybe a second, but I can't talk about that yet. If you get picked up by the wrong folks, Alan, you can't talk about it. Even though they could make you want to very, very badly.

  Trying to scare me?

  Yes. If yo
u're already scared, good, and I'll lay off.

  I am. Scared enough that I'm thinking about buying a gun.

  Cusick cocked his head, and his gaze was skeptical. We can't help you there. It's not something we do.

  What, exactly, do you do, Tom?

  His hands idly coiling the old black and white film as he replied, Cusick said, Most people think of lodge brothers as grown children who raise money for charities. True, as far as it goes, Alan. Did you know that nearly every President, until recently, has been a member of some Masonic order? Seeing the curiosity in Ramsay's face, he went on: We try to break no laws, but we'll operate in the chinks between laws.

  Because Ramsay had seen the grotesque ways in which honest folk had been co-opted by a LaRouche or a Kalvin, his question was pointed. Party affiliation?

  None. Personally, I'm a radical centrist; I'd love to see some profound changes, some liberal, some conservative. It's really not an important question. What's important is this Donnersprache thing that Undersecretary Parker called a charisma device. It might somehow be used to help human beings, but in the wrong hands-well, there might have been a fuehrer in Germany without it, but maybe not. And Donnersprache is obviously not in good hands the second time around. Think of us as a few armchair sociologists, Alan, working up a list of the unpleasant things that might happen within, say, a month.