Sylvia Carlyle knocked on Samuel’s office door and walked in without waiting for a responsea minor impropriety, but not to Sylvia. Not waiting for an answering invitation was a practice she rarely indulged in. She took knocking on the door seriously. It was for her a formal request for entry into a personal territory.
Samuel Berman looked up, surprised by her sudden appearance.
“Samuel, are you okay? I’m worried about you,” she asked.
He looked at her, trying to refocus his thoughts on why she would be in his office.
“Did you hear me call you in the corridor a few moments ago? You walked right by me,” she continued.
Not understanding what she was referring to, he simply shook his head, indicating a generalized negative.
“Samuel, what’s going on? Have I done something? Why aren’t you talking to me?”
Samuel sighed and leaned back in his chair. He was waiting for this. Only his conversation with Arthur had driven it out of his mind. But it was not to be that he should be spared this. More deceit. More lies. For a good cause—he did believe this.
“Sylvia, what do you mean? Of course I’m talking to you. I was just preoccupied just now with my conversation with the chief. You know me—absent-minded professor.”
Sylvia closed the office door.
“Samuel, you are not talking to me. You are talking at me. I’m the executive administrator. I can help. I’m not without skills. Let me help you and Dr. Cranshaw. Don’t freeze me out. Believe me. It’s scarier not knowing what is going on. You aren’t helping me by keeping me out, if that’s what you think you’re doing. You’re just making me crazier than this situation already deserves.”
“But, Sylvia. You are talking foolishness. We are not freezing you out, as you say. It is merely that some things need to be kept at a certain level. The more people who know some things the less chance of keeping them confidential. You of all people understand the need for this, Sylvia, yes?”
“Yes, of course. But how can it be that Philip Layland knows more than I do about what is going on here? Samuel, we’re not keeping our secrets very well as it is. And I can’t help protect against problems like Layland if I don’t know what’s going on. What is going on, Samuel?”
“Nothing. You know everything. We told you about the feasibility study. We apologized. There is nothing else.”
Sylvia sat in Samuel’s guest chair next to his desk. Her fingernails tapped an unconscious rhythm on the shiny cherry wood surface. She studied Samuel’s face as he smiled benignly back at her.
“James Marshall is interviewing the government boys. Is there anything you can tell me that may help his work? Any angles he can work on that may help us? That can help the president?—you know, support his efforts to work with us?”
“I do not think anything will help us at this point until we can demonstrate successful operation of the pilot plant. And then we won’t need any help, Sylvia. We must just ride out the Congressional storm until our plant is ready for presentation to the public. The president understands what he has done and is prepared to deal with the Congressional consequences. There is nothing else I can tell you, Sylvia.”
He got up and walked around his desk. Taking Sylvia’s hand, he gently guided her from her chair, explaining, “And now, my dear girl, I must get back to work. Please, do not worry. Everything is under control.”
After Sylvia’s departure, Samuel picked up his phone and dialed quickly. After several rings, Samuel heard the distinctive Portuguese accent of Afonso Alves.
“Senhor Alves, this is Samuel Berman. I trust you are well todayfine, fine. I am afraid that we must once more review the payment schedule on your company’s account. I am very sorry for this inconvenienceyes, thank you. May I say the day after tomorrow?good. Then we will meet at the usual place at the usual time. Thank you so much for your understanding. Until then.”
Senhor Alves waited until the end of the day. On his way home he stopped at a telephone booth and placed a direct dial overseas telephone call. From the intertoll trunk line, the signal was coded and modulated for satellite transmission to the demodulator and decoder in São Paulo. His message was brief. He did not wait for a reply.
At a National Security Agency surveillance center a transcript was typed of the monitored telephone call to Brazil. The transcript was forwarded to the main computer center in Washington for correlation with keywords, phrases, origination points, destination points, and proper names by project. Senhor Alves’ name, as a representative of a company doing business with AJC Fusion, was identified as a key proper noun and the transcript was blue-flagged for further analysis. The blue-flagged transcript was forwarded to the Combined Surveillance database and scanned for correlation with FBI surveillance transcripts of domestic calls placed and received by AJC Fusion personnel and customers. A date match between the outgoing Berman call to Alves and the outgoing Alves call to Brazil was made and the Berman call transcript and the Alves call transcript were both reflagged red. The Project Surveillance Officer was notified and the correlation factors were expanded to include the phone destination in Brazil and persons at that destination. At the same time, the software correlation factor between Berman and Alves was strengthened. Future Berman/Alves matches would automatically be red-flagged. In addition, all domestic phone calls by Afonso Alves would now fall within the FBI surveillance net.
22
Amanda Brock stood before the president. “We’re following the trail and expanding the net, Mr. President, but I thought you should know about this as soon as possible. There definitely is a Brazilian connection with Berman that has been especially active in the last week to ten days. The meeting arrangements between Berman and Alves sound businesslike and appropriate for the existing contract work Nova Industries is doing for the Brazilians. Except, well, Berman technically doesn’t work for Nova Industries. As you know, that’s the parent company to AJC Fusion. Berman works for AJC Fusion. Someone from Nova should be handling any issues with the Brazilians.”
“What do the conversations tell you?” Drummond asked.
“As I said, they are businesslike. Too businesslike. It all sounds fishy given the context of the issues swirling around all of us these days, including them.”
More like thinking out loud than really speaking with Amanda Brock, Drummond said, “The Brazilians are heavily committed to ethanol. They’ve been pushing their program for years. There’s been a lot of resistance to their ethanol marketing efforts from the world-hunger folks. You knowtoo much land set aside for ethanol and not for food production. Fusion energy could be just the fallback position the Brazilians need. And they have a mature nuclear capacity. Hmm. It makes a good fit, AmandaAJC Fusion and Brazilif our Congress produces a deal killer between us and AJC. But it would create a hell of a mess for me if any of this Brazilian business leaked out. What are the chances of that, do you think?”
Amanda Brock simply shrugged her shoulders and raised her eyebrows.
“Yes. I feel the same way. If there is a story to be leaked, it will be leaked. Well, there is nothing to be done now except hope that Cranshaw can stay on his schedule and get his damn pilot plant finished before Congress can work any mischief. Continue to keep me posted.”
“Of course, Mr. President. Also, the daily hot sheets will continue to track these for you. One other thing. General Slaider asked to but put on the distribution of the hot sheet reports for AJC Fusion. Roger and I agreed to this, unless of course you rather we rescind that.”
Emerson thought about this new wrinkle for a moment and then said, “No. That’s fine.”
“Then, good day, sir.”
23
The news from Amanda Brock that Cranshaw was working a Brazilian connection was disturbing to Drummond, but not entirely surprising. He had run a business himself and knew the unwritten laws that govern entrepreneurial operations. Brock’s concern could be easily understood and he appreciated her loyalty to him. From her
point of view they had uncovered a significant link being established that sounded like a covert operation and Amanda decided the president needed to know about. She was doing her jobthe usual thorough FBI joband Berman was doing his.
After his meeting with Brock, President Drummond summoned Paul Latimer to his office. Paul was well-connected in Brazil, having worked there in the private sector for five years and in congressional committees dealing with weapons-sales oversight when he was a senator. Drummond would take advantage of the contacts Latimer had made. He also wanted Paul out of the country for a while. There would be less chance of a slip if only he was to respond to Congressional and news media attacks on his dealings with Cranshaw.
Drummond got right to the issue when the vice president arrived at his office. He quickly briefed Latimer about Brock’s intelligence update.
“Paul, I need to find out what’s going on in Brazil. This could be a real bombshell for me and for the party if there’s something there and if it gets out of hand. I’ll make a brief announcement that you are going down to meet on economic issues. Take whoever you think you need, but see if you can find out what’s behind these Berman contacts.”
Paul Latimer was surprised by the sudden request for him to leave the country.
“Okay, Emerson. I could make some calls and I’m still pretty well-plugged-in down there, but what about our intelligence boys? Can’t they handle this better? I mean, I’m going to be pretty visible I’m afraid.”
“That’s just the point, Paul. Of course, you’re right about our CIA boys doing a good job. And Roger assures me that his people are on everything, everywhere. But I want you to be visible. I want it known, in a diplomatic, behind-the-closed-door subtle way that we know something is up and they better be careful.”
“Do you think any security breaches have occurred? Is Cranshaw setting up an auction? It’s a little late for that isn’t it, since we already sent them the laser they needed? What game are they playing?” Latimer put his notebook away.
“Paul, my guess is if you want to have a shot at my job when I’m out of here, you better get down there and make sure I’m not being double-crossed. How soon can you be on your way?”
“How soon would you like me to leave?”
“Tonight.”
24
Jeremy Leach watched the drop of water run its crooked path down the windshield. He stared, absorbed, watching another, trying to guess the path the drop would take, trying to anticipate the hidden channels that made it go first one way, then the other. Frustrated, he turned the wipers on to clear the glass. But soon he turned them off again to watch the rain-splattered droplets once again run their elusive trek down the windshield.
He reached into the pocket of his windbreaker for a cigarette, found none, and leaned over to the glove compartment. The cigarettes were under the gloves, next to the gun.
The passenger-side window was open halfway to keep the glass from fogging up. Because of the slope of the sides of the car this allowed the rain to enter the window, drenching the seat.
“Dumb sons of bitches,” Jeremy thought. “Can’t make a friggin’ car that makes any sense. Can’t keep the windows closed in the rain and smoke and you can’t keep them open without getting soaked.”
As he lit his cigarette in the car, he realized that the smoke flowing from the partially opened window made him foolishly conspicuous, sitting alone in his car on this quiet street.
Reluctantly he left the car and jogged to the doorway under the stoop of the adjacent brownstone. He could still observe the door across the street. He took a deep drag from his cigarette, savoring the mental image of the smoke deeply penetrating his chest, deep into his body, feeling his lungs fill, his chest swell from the draw. Slowly he exhaled the thin blue stream of smoke, like a dragon, like a devil. He loved smoking.
“Fuck cancer,” he thought. In his line of work that was the least of his worries.
He loved his work. He took pride in stalking his subjects, silently, invisibly, with the patience of a cat, violating them in stages. He liked the precision of his work. Like an artist. He took pride in performing strictly according to the contract. Nothing more, nothing less. He was good and he was dependable.
Jeremy Leach also liked the waiting. He knew others found waiting boring. Not Jeremy. To him it wasn’t just waiting. It was one more way he could experience his power to enter people’s lives without their permission or knowing. He liked to imagine them going about their business, unaware of how he had pierced the privacy of their lives.
It’s not like he doesn’t have special qualities that make him as good as he is, Jeremy often liked to tell himself. Patience wasn’t always his strength. He learned to be patient when he was young, because he was small and a target.
Jeremy was never able to learn anything about his real father. He hated Johnny, the man his mother took up with. He never did understand why she needed him. Skinny, ugly bastard, he remembered. And mean. And good for nothing. Always getting tossed out of one place then another. The family would have to move from place to place and town to town. Sometimes they would last only two months in one town. Johnny never paid for anything. Half the time they had no electricity. Often they would have blocks of ice in the refrigerator to keep the day’s worth of food cold and stolen candles for light in the evening. No one knew how he got the ice.
Jeremy got satisfaction remembering Johnny. He liked to picture his stubbly face, his long skinny body, and his wild eyes. When Johnny wasn’t drunk he was whiny and always lying about something. He and Jeremy’s mother would have frequent screaming fights. When he was not drunk he would be lying about stealing her paycheck or what he did the afternoon when he was supposed to be at the construction site. When he was drunk, he would get mean and violent. And then they would scream at each other but he would also hit his mother. It was always best to get lost when Johnny was drunk.
Johnny hated Jeremy. Jeremy never knew or understood why. It just seemed to be his fate. Johnny often would sneer at Jeremy and tell him, “You ain’t even worth the price of a bag of shit.” He told Jeremy that all the time, as if he was pleased with himself for thinking it up. As if it was some brilliant joke. When he was not violent or drunk or whiny or lying or stealing he would plague Jeremy. And Jeremy would wonder, “Why me?”
Finally, Johnny beat up Jeremy one time too many. Jeremy had been thinking of getting out for some time. He could not stand the fights between Johnny and his mother anymore. He wanted to kill Johnny every time he hit his mother. He wanted to do violent things to Johnny’s body. He wondered why he did not have a real father. And he was tormented with the fear that one day he would become like Johnny.
Jeremy found that by being small and patient he could get into people’s houses and get out with whatever he wanted because he would watch and figure out when they were there and when they were not and for how long. He did well. He only took cash. He did not know how to get rid of anything else and expensive watches and jewelry could start people talking. Money he could hide. And he didn’t need anything else.
Often, he wouldn’t find any cash. But it didn’t matter to Jeremy. He would search through drawers and closets and he would feel the excitement of being there, of being in those people’s forbidden private places. Sometimes he would leave no sign. Other times, mostly when there were girls, he would leave signs that someone had been there. He would do juvenile pranks like stuffing a bra with toilet paper and leaving it on the girl’s pillow. Sometimes he would find guns but he didn’t take them. Sometimes he would leave the gun on the man’s bed, propped up with anything convenient, and leave it pointing toward the door. He always found the guns loaded. Always. Guns were serious business. He never found an empty gun.
Johnny found out about his money and that was the end of that. He took the whole stash. Johnny nearly killed him getting it away from him. Jeremy could still remember the shock, the electric, instantaneous shock as Johnny caught him by surprise counting his mo
ney in the bathroom. Jeremy could only guess that Johnny thought he was smoking or drinking in the john and wanted some of whatever he had. So Johnny kicked the door open and caught him red-handed counting his poke.
Jeremy wiped the hair that had blown down across his forehead and smiled a wry smile thinking how like a fool he had been sitting there on the bathroom floor, his money in neat little piles: ones, fives, tens, and twenties—two hundred and thirty seven dollars.
He had not spent a penny. That money was more than just cash to Jeremy. It was a visible sign of his skill and daring. He had accomplished a great thing in accumulating that money, secretly, silently, with stealth and skill. Here was something he could do well and he could do it alone.
But Johnny never missed a beat. He smashed in the door looking for a smoke or a bottle and instead had found a clandestine hoard of money. It was too much for Johnny. He became furious. Smokes were bad enough, but all this money . . .
‘You goddam little shit,” he snarled. “How’d you get all this? Give it here.”
Jeremy still remembers how the white walls and the ceiling light exploded into incandescence in his brain as the door crashed open. A voice was screaming in his head, screaming, “No. It’s mine. It’s mine. It’s mine.”
Johnny’s shoe struck him in the chest, slamming him against the tub. He flailed and grasped at Johnny, pushing himself, fighting the pain from the blow. Johnny kicked him again in the ribs, again and again. For Jeremy, the room slowly blossomed into a pink glow as he slumped to the cold tile floor, still reaching for Johnny as he tried to turn his body from the sickening, thudding kicks.
When he awoke, his face and hair were wet from his own vomit. He could not move his body, but he was strangely free from pain as he lay there. It was not until he tried to move that the first wave of fire broke over him, radiating outward from his chest to the ends of his body and then bouncing back again in a flash to focus in his ribs.
On Deception Watch Page 11
