Dean Ing - Silent Thunder

by Silent Thunder(lit)

  Where the hell is my daughter right now, Ramsay asked, too stunned by this goofy recital to fully believe it all.

  With me, actually. She tells me you play tricks with coffee makers, is that true? Ramsay? Hello?

  But Ramsay was already running for the exit.

  The utility van bore a legend on its side, now, with peel-off block lettering: 'REVIVACAR,' and in smaller letters, '24 hr. service.' The man in white overalls had opened the hood of the Plymouth next to the yellow Genie, and jumper cables coiled on the macadam nearby. Had the Plymouth's owner showed up, it would have been simple for Bobby Lathrop to claim he'd made an honest mistake.

  Twice, Bobby stiffened, ducking his head into the Plymouth's innards as mall patrons walked past, but no one seemed curious about his work.

  The second man was harder to spot because only his feet protruded from beneath the nose of the Genie. His explanation might have been more creative. Harman worked silently under the Genie while Bobby kept a nervous watch, and when he was finished he slid out with very special care. Switched on, he said, scrambling into the van.

  Bobby lowered the Plymouth's hood, retrieved the jumper cables, and hummed an old tune as he drove away. The tune was Smoke Gets In Your Eyes.

  A hundred yards distant, a tow truck driver picked up his all-band unit. You have your rabbit, Athos?

  Hippity-hop, Porthos. By the way, I made one of those scufflers, knew him from the old days. He's got my leash on him but it won't activate for an hour. I'll give him lots of room. Aramis, proceed south on New Hampshire. And be careful, Porthos, you wouldn't want to make a report to the nation.

  Didn't know you cared. Porthos out. Tom Cusick put the comm set down, sighed, and drove the tow truck behind the Genie, taking a small toolkit and an astonishingly heavy blanket as he stepped down from the cab. If worst came to worst, the truck would intercept most of the debris and working from the Kevlar blanket, he might lose only his arms.

  SEVENTEEN

  Alan Ramsay laughed with tears running down his cheeks, holding Laurie to him, inhaling her scent as she hugged him back. Boy, could you ever use a bath, he said.

  She wouldn't let me. Oh, Dad, is it true about Mom?

  Some jackass told her, Ramsay; sorry, said Corwin, who stood by.

  'Fraid so, pudd'n, Ramsay nodded, and held Laurie again as she broke out in fresh sobs. I miss her too. We'll get 'em, wait and see.

  Montgomery County mounties found the house an hour ago, Corwin put in. Laurie got one of 'em herself, Christ knows how.

  I told you how, Laurie sniffled. I'm not sorry.

  I don't suppose you'd be averse to making a statement, now that it's over, Corwin said to Ramsay.

  Fine, when it's over, Ramsay said, but it isn't over.

  I could keep you here, Corwin said. It did not sound much like a threat.

  Ramsay lowered his daughter to the floor, one arm still draped protectively around her shoulders. At first I didn't know where you stood; I mean the police. You-look, can I talk to you where nobody will tape us? Privileged conversation?

  Right. Not legally privileged, I can't give you that. But I can use my judgment. Come with me, he said, turning. Ramsay took Laurie along. It wasn't so much that he wanted her to hear it; merely that he did not want to let her out of his sight.

  ... Supposed to stay in the studios, Ramsay, said Tom Cusick, calling shortly before noon. When the receptionist told me to call some police lieutenant I thought someone had nailed you. Why are you-?

  My daughter escaped last night, Ramsay interrupted. She wound up with the police and I came straight here by taxi. Maybe that's why Kalvin's people were changing plans. Anybody who calls me at NBN gets referred to this number.

  A sigh of relief from Cusick. That's the break we needed. You really have the girl there with you?

  Sleeping like a lamb; she had a busy night, said Ramsay.

  Then maybe we can step up the pace. I suppose the police are tracing this call, and I'd rather keep a low profile.

  Ramsay glanced across at Corwin, who was using an extension. Corwin, smiling, shook his head. Lieutenant Corwin is on the extension; he says not. Anyway, why would you care?

  Because I've broken some laws by not waiting for the so-called proper authorities. Disarmed a half-pound of plastique under your car chassis two hours ago. Mercury switch, so it'd detonate when you backed out or hit a bump.

  Lieutenant Corwin here, Corwin broke in. Have you notified the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms people?

  No, I just took the detonator out of the circuit and left the damned thing where it was, on the front suspension crossmember. You might get some good prints off the device; but not mine. And two friends of mine are smooth-tailing the guy who seems to be running this piece of the operation.

  All we need is a bunch of amateurs, Corwin began.

  Professionals. Retired, but not all that retired, Cusick said dryly. You want to take it over?

  There are some things they can't take over, Ramsay put in. But I have a contact who could start from the other end. At the top.

  That's dangerous, said Cusick. Kalvin's thugs are almost certainly some part of the intelligence community.

  We're wasting time, said Corwin. I have enough facts to start on, but a set of prints on a car bomb would make all this business more credible. And I'd feel better if you let us take up the surveillance you're running. In fact I'm going to have to insist.

  Then you'll want a make on a van license plate, and I've got the number of a certain motel room that'll bear watching, Cusick replied. Got a pencil and pad handy?

  We're professionals too, said Corwin. Shoot.

  By late afternoon, Bobby Lathrop began to feel tendrils of prickly heat on the nape of his neck. He'd tried several times to raise Pam Garza at her apartment and at work; had even tried Ramsay's number without success. With twenty-twenty hindsight, he knew he should've grabbed her the night before instead of howling off in that futile effort to nail Ramsay. Harman, who knew better than to go within two hundred yards of the Genie, had posted himself in the mall where he would hear the explosion. He had called twice to say the Genie was still intact, unobliterated. They had to presume Ramsay was still at work, maybe on a remote job, but sooner or later he'd come back for his toy. Bobby didn't want to call Unruh yet, but he knew that Unruh, at home on medical leave or some such, would be furious if that call didn't come. Bobby knew he should go to a pay phone to call, but then he might miss a call from Harman. He did it the easy way, with his scrambler, from the room.

  Scrambler or no scrambler, Unruh didn't sound so hot. No, of course he hasn't called here; he'd damned well better not, without a scrambler. Have you got the girl?

  Which girl, Terence?

  Any girl! Or Ramsay. Or any leads on any of them.

  Bobby tried to explain, but sometimes there was no explaining failure. He assured Unruh that Ramsay would be accounted for almost any moment now, and that the Garza woman couldn't just disappear. He said he didn't know whether there was any fresh action at Jondahl's place.

  I called in a favor, Unruh replied, deliberately vague. Sheriff's people have an open homicide there, forensics people borrowed from Gaithersburg. The place is blown, forget it. Unless you left prints there, he added ominously.

  Now you know I wouldn't be that dumb. And the Firebird's stored, beat to shit; we're using the van and a rented 'Vette. Listen, you have to figure that little kid is finding her way home. I could surveil her apartment, maybe pick her up if she didn't go to the nearest police cruiser. Unless you could put someone else on it, he added hopefully. And what do I do with Garza, if I find her?

  Hold incommunicado, either or both of them. I'll see if I can borrow some assets to find Garza; you can try the

  Ramsay woman's apartment for the little girl, it's already got new tenants, but watch yourself. Somebody else could be around, God knows who. And Bobby: call me again the instant you have the news on Ramsay.

  Bobby replaced the receiver
thoughtfully, wondering if he was ever going to have good news on Ramsay.

  Seventy yards away, in the closet-like telephone service module of the motel, a slender technician pressed a button, then another, then tapped out an instruction. His companion, older and burly, had given up on optimism years ago. Too quick for you, he suggested to the young police tech.

  Nope. It was all scrambled mush, but whoever's on the other end has very high-tech stuff. And he responded from the rez of one, he consulted the readout, Terence Unruh. Ever hear of him?

  Naw. But I figure we're going to, said the burly one, after I call this in to Corwin.

  ... And they're here, said the President's secretary, and the phrase is Code Blue. General Magnuson said you'd understand. He seems very, ah, intent, Mr. President.

  Harrison Rand leaned forward, flogging his memory. Codes yellow and red dealt with external threats; Code Blue had something to do with clear and present internal danger. Well, I suppose it can't be helped. You'd better ring Walt, he's only across the street.

  For your ears only, sir. That's what they said, sir.

  Rand sighed, threw up his hands, and handed a bundle of unsigned documents to his aide. Give me one minute, and show them in, he said to the intercom. To the aide and the two men who stood near the big desk he said, I'm afraid it'll have to wait, boys. Use that door, he added with a sweep of his hand. He stood up, pushing his glasses away from his nose as he dry-washed his face, wondering what in the name of the Lord God Almighty was so important that the Army's Magnuson had to bring Major General McManus of the Defense Intelligence Agency along for backup.

  Magnuson entered with due respect, a rawboned gray eminence with piercing eyes, also gray; McManus stayed half a pace behind, shorter, not so gray but just as grim. They met the Presidential handclasp firmly, the DIA's McManus glancing around with something more than idle curiosity. Now what's all this about Code Blue, Rand asked, smiling.

  Recordings, McManus muttered.

  Magnuson: Right. Mr. President, what I have to tell you is-well, a little bizarre. I don't think you want it taped. In fact, I think we should talk downstairs in the Situation Room because your own office, I'm horrified to say, may not be secure.

  Rand nodded. Anything you can tell me, you can tell Walter Kalvin. I'm calling him now, he said.

  Yessir, said McManus, before Magnuson could respond. And you may want to call this person, too. With your permission, Mr. President, he finished, and scribbled a few words on the notepad in his hand.

  Rand took the paper, saw the words, KALVIN IMPLICATED. ELECTRONICS WHIZ. He flushed, opened his mouth, then closed it again. Maybe I can handle this alone, he said then, thrusting the note in his pocket. He strode into the hallway toward the stairs and nodded to another aide who crossed his path, but did not speak until they had been ushered into the map-lined Situation Room with its quiet whirr of communications equipment. Then: How d'you know we're secure here?

  Because DIA helps NSA sweep this room regularly, and Walter Kalvin has no clout here, said Magnuson, omitting the honorific. Then remembering it: Mr. President, either we've been taken in by the hoax of the century, or-well, Metropolitan Police are backing the allegations up to a point. So far the casualties include Undersecretary Richard Parker; a fine old CIA alumnus named Wintoon; and a woman who just happened to get in the way. The score could climb at any time.

  General, do you have any idea how this sounds to me? The President was smiling gently.

  Just like it sounded to me at fifteen hundred hours, today, when I returned a call to a man I trust. Guess I'd better start this like a briefing, Magnuson said. He paused, setting his mental files in order, and then began. Mr. President, do you ever watch Alan Ramsay on NBN?

  EIGHTEEN

  By eight o'clock the following morning, the desk top in Harrison Rand's Oval Office resembled a repairman's nightmare. One of the two men from No Such Agency-an insider's joke for the National Security Agency-began to remove heavy shielding from around a ceramic container the size of a man's hand. Electrical leads from the box were still connected to a maze of wiring that composed elements of the Presidential telephone system. We can take it out of the system, he said. Gamma signatures are negative for explosives.

  Rand himself had been cautioned not to enter by McManus, both of them remaining a safe distance from the suspect device the NSA had found in the desk. Advised that the Oval Office was safe, the President strode in with stormclouds on his face, General McManus at his heels. I think this is thin baloney, gentlemen. My closest friend would not endanger me, he said.

  As the senior man lowered a screen-equipped device to the carpet, McManus murmured, Maybe not, Mr. President, but that box isn't a necessary element, and Kalvin is one of the few people with access to this room in your absence. Raising his voice: Walton, what do you make of it?

  The senior man squinted down at the desk. The thing has an antenna strip. That implies a short-range receiver and relay inside so someone nearby could activate its circuits, whatever they do. All we know now is, it may affect the telephone output, it's hermetically sealed, and it won't blow up.

  Harrison Rand no longer trusted anyone entirely. He was not even certain that Walt Kalvin had done anything out of line. How do you know it won't, if you haven't opened it, he said, stepping back a pace.

  Thermal neutron emitter, said McManus, as the junior man began to pull the leads from the ceramic box. Explosives will return characteristic patterns of gamma rays.

  The junior man supplied, It's the sort of thing they're putting in airports these-Christ, he ended softly, raising his fingers to his mouth.

  They could all hear faint cracklings from the box, and the polymer protector beneath it began to smoke. The junior man used diagonal cutters to sever the other wires as McManus wrestled a segment of shielding into place. The senior man used the cutters and a screwdriver as tongs, dropping the box onto the shielding, where it continued to sizzle for some time. Energy cell, said the senior man, one'll get you five. Fed from the bus bar and when power's removed it gives it all back to the internals. Nothing that'd look incriminating on X-ray or gamma return. We should've given it a portable power supply.

  Rand approached the device. Could you put that in English?

  Yessir. Whoever installed that box knew enough electronics to avoid putting explosives in it. We'd find it in a sweep, which we do regularly. So he set it up to fry its circuits if anybody tried to disconnect it. Smart. That's what it did. Heated the whole box up, in fact.

  Then you won't find anything inside?

  Probably nothing useful, sir. The perpetrator was very determined that nobody else would learn just what that box did.

  And he outsmarted you, said the President.

  I'm dreadfully sorry to say he did, sir. We were just in too big a hurry.

  That's how Walt would think, Rand reflected. Aloud he said, Well, try and get everything put back so I can use my confounded office. He gestured for the general to follow and swept out, heading for the little think tank room. Then, behind closed doors: McManus, I intend to find out just what that gizmo did. Any ideas?

  Yes, sir, if you don't believe Ramsay. Let NSA check the cordless mike you use-and put Kalvin's butt on a griddle.

  Walt keeps it himself. Always did; fanatic about it, Rand said thoughtfully.

  No doubt. And there's no telling how he's got that booby-trapped. Maybe his pal, Unruh, would know.

  Oh; CIA, I believe.

  Right; long and distinguished service, but he's a dying man. Metro Police say Terence Unruh may be running the men who tried to car-bomb Ramsay. And it's not exactly a long shot for Unruh to be hooked up with Kalvin. We're letting them run loose for the moment, looking for wider infection.

  Now the storm began to break, as the righteous Presidential anger of Harrison Rand began to surface. The Kalvin-Unruh connection, he knew, was a fact. I still have a few groups to speak to on that media council thing, which is due for a vote soon. McManus, I want n
o action from you whatever, do you understand? None! Nor a whisper of any of this. I'll get that cordless mike myself, Walt will want me to use it anyhow.

  But Mr. President-

  That's the end of it! It's a terrible thing to suspect you've gained the highest office in this country as someone's trained seal, honking on cue. I will be blast-no, I will be damned if I don't put an end to it myself.