Lucas Watts’ words came back to Lana: I’ve seen what’s on it. Trust me, you don’t want to take me to court. ‘What about Governor Garret? Would he have known?’
‘I don’t know for sure, but I think it’s a reasonable assumption that he would have. You could always ask him,’ Kradich replied.
‘And how are you going to do that without it leaking to the media? This is a national security issue, for Christ’s sakes.’ Sherwood stood and paced the room. ‘Aside from the fact that you’re wading into the political arena, you’d be killing our careers.’
‘Most sensible thing I’ve ever heard you say,’ Kradich agreed.
‘Any luck getting into the KAL 007 compartment?’ Lana asked.
‘No.’ Kradich was emphatic. ‘Even if I wanted to spend the rest of my life in prison—which I don’t—I can’t even find the compartment, much less get access, because I have no idea what it’s called. There’s no central reference database for info like that. What you’re asking for is way beyond top secret.’
‘Relax, Saul,’ said Lana. ‘We’ll just have to look in another direction is all.’
Kradich gave her a wan smile. ‘Did any of the other stuff I sent you help?’ ‘The psych evaluations for Curtis Foxx were interesting. The fate of 007 really busted him up. We don’t know why exactly, because most of the sessions were blacked out, but it had something to do with a Criticom. Do you know much about them?’
‘What was his problem with it?’
‘According to Foxx, they sent one off while flying a mission, but never received a reply.’
‘Was it sent in the early morning hours of September 1?’
‘That bit is helpfully blacked out,’ said Sherwood. ‘Could have been any night.’
‘But I think we can safely assume it was the night 007 was shot down,’ Lana countered.
‘You can’t assume shit, Lana! Y’know, the trouble here is that you have an outcome in mind and you’re just looking for evidence to support it, even if you have to manufacture it.’
‘Is that what you really think?’
‘This Ben Harbor guy really crawled under your skin and laid some eggs, didn’t he?’
‘Oh, now that’s a nasty metaphor, Sherwood,’ Kradich interjected. ‘You just made me feel sick.’
Special Agent Sherwood folded his arms across his chest and slouched back in his chair. He shook his head slowly a couple of times, like a man tuning himself out.
‘If you want to move on from this case, Miller, I’ll agree to it,’ said Lana.
‘Suits me,’ Sherwood replied.
‘A Criticom,’ said Kradich, ignoring the tension, ‘was a back channel commanders could use to communicate with the National Command Authority.’
‘As in the President?’
‘Yeah, him—Ronny Reagan in this instance. A Criticom allowed the man on the spot to tell the boss exactly what was going on. It was a nuclear war failsafe of sorts, bypassing any potential filter that might creep in as intelligence traveled up through the chain of command.’
‘And what was supposed to happen in response to it?’
‘Criticoms were structured to reach the President within minutes of being sent. In a critical emergency situation, receiving it the next day would have been too late.’
‘Okay. That’s interesting. So you’d only send a Criticom if you saw a dire event taking shape, or to prevent one from happening.’
‘It was a protocol devised to prevent an unnecessary nuclear war.’
‘So let’s speculate that you see a civilian 747 heading toward the secret Soviet submarine base at Petropavlovsk, and you think the Russians might mistake it for an unidentified military aircraft. Might that prompt you to send a Criticom?’
Kradich nodded. ‘It’s possible.’
‘A message like that is going to come through the NSA here at Fort Meade.’
‘Yes.’
‘Would it have been logged?’
‘I see where you’re going.’
‘And the President’s response would have come back the same way, wouldn’t it?’
‘I’m on it,’ said Kradich.
‘You’re in some deep shit here, Lana, and you’re not wearing the shoes for it.’
‘Thanks for your support, Miller.’
‘That’s exactly what I’m doing, Lana. I’m supporting you by being level-headed. I’m trying to stop you ruining your career, or worse, and for what? Something that happened in another millennium. Half the country wasn’t even born when this went down.’
‘That’s just the point, Miller. It has never stopped happening to all the families and relatives of the people who were on that plane. No one has had any real closure.’
Sherwood shook his head. Lana could see that they were on opposite sides with no chance of meeting in the middle.
‘Easier than I thought,’ said Kradich, looking up at the wall where a scanned document appeared. One line was highlighted green with an electronic marker. ‘The Criticoms themselves are still classified but looks like their arrival status has slipped under the radar. The code for a Criticom is CP-1-3. That’s command protocol one—the highest group—and three is the third highest status within the group. I’d say CP-1-1 would be “Run, they’ve dropped the bomb”. According to the log, a CP-1-3 came in on September 1, 1983 at 16:07 GMT. From memory, KAL 007 got its tail waxed at around 18:26 GMT. So that CP-1-3 has to be your friend Curtis Foxx telling the President the shit is about to hit the nuclear fan.’
‘He got no reply,’ said Lana, searching the log.
‘Doesn’t look like it.’
‘So Curtis Foxx, the commander of Arctic 16, believes he has a possible nuclear war on his hands as he sees KAL 007 heading off toward Petropavlovsk. He sends off a Criticom, and the President doesn’t respond.’
‘Hmm . . .’ Kradich rubbed his chin. It didn’t seem right.
‘And President Reagan ignored the Criticom—which is unlikely. Most probably he never received it. Where was the Criticom going?’
‘From the destination code here on the log, it went to the White House. That was standard procedure.’
Lana almost smiled. She’d spent the last couple of days becoming an expert on KAL 007. ‘But President Reagan wasn’t at the White House on the morning of September 1, 1983.’
‘Where was he?’
‘Holidaying with Nancy at their ranch in Santa Barbara. The State Department made him cut his vacation short, come back to Washington and deal with the 007 crisis.’
‘The fact that he was over in California shouldn’t have mattered. He still should have received it.’
‘So they deliberately bypassed President Reagan. He had no idea,’ said Lana.
‘Who did? Who’s “they”?’ asked Kradich.
‘Garret, National Security Advisor Clark, and probably Meese and Casey. Clark and Meese were with the President in Santa Barbara. I wonder if it was their idea for the President to take a vacation at that time.’
‘Like I said, Lana, you’re just seeing what you want to see,’ said Sherwood.
‘Ah, the beast wakes,’ quipped Kradich.
‘You’re looking for a conspiracy here, but all you’re seeing is human error.’
‘Just walking the trail, Sherwood.’
‘I’d call it chasing your tail.’
Lana ignored the comment. ‘Who has this facility booked this afternoon?’
‘Another analyst—North African sector. Why?’
‘Some kind of diary would be kept for the use of these rooms, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yep.’
‘Would that schedule be classified?’
‘No, though what they do in here will be.’ Kradich’s face cracked into a grin. ‘You are good at this. Give me a minute.’
Lana sat back and watched Kradich work the control panel, while up on the laser wall the massive processing power at his fingertips wound back time.
‘Here’s the log for 1983, August 31/September 1 . .
. Oh, shit,’ he said.
The signature hadn’t changed much in all these years.
‘Roy Garret. He was in GF1,’ said Lana, examining the familiar scrawl. ‘What was GF1?’
‘This is VIB2—virtual investigation booth number two. Back then they were called global facilities. GF1 was probably the main facility. They didn’t have the immediate grunt that we have, but in a GF you could monitor the world from a variety of feeds.’
‘That Criticom sent by Curtis Foxx out over the Bering Sea, alerting the President to the looming catastrophe—could Roy Garret have seen that, perhaps given it a push along to the White House?’
‘Jesus, Lana. Enough,’ warned Sherwood.
‘It’s possible,’ said Kradich. ‘But I can’t tell you whether that’s something he actually did.’
Up on the screen, Kradich opened the governor of New Mexico’s website. The home page showed the presidential hopeful standing in front of a collection of people, old and young, black, white and Hispanic. The slogan overarching the gathering read “Roy Garret. For all America”. Garret looked presidential, thought Lana. Tall, a full head of hair tending to silver, tan skin, wrinkles that hinted at a sense of humor, and lines in his forehead that suggested a capacity for concern, compassion and a love of hard work.
‘He sure looks the part,’ said Kradich as he clicked through various screens, drilling into the site.
‘Wait!’ said Lana urgently. ‘Can you go back?’
‘To what?’ asked Kradich.
‘A few pages back. They loaded fast—I thought I saw something.’
‘Sure.’
‘There!’ said Lana. The photo was titled ‘Roy Garret’s Family’. Lana read the caption aloud: ‘“Some of the hardworking people who are helping to make my candidacy for this most high office possible”.’ She pointed. ‘It’s him.’
‘Who?’ Kradich asked.
‘There, just behind Garret. It’s the guy I met with Whittle. We’re on this 007 investigation because of him. That’s Hank Buck.’
February 10, 2012
New Mexico Governor’s Mansion, Santa Fe. ‘That’s what I’m talking ’bout,’ said Felix Ackerman, slapping the latest poll results on Roy Garret’s desk, his chins vibrating with excitement. ‘It’s a complete turnaround. Instead of being two points behind, as you were ten days ago, you’re now two points ahead of Chevalier in the most-preferred President stakes. I just got off the phone from the senior analyst at Gallup and he believes a broader cross-section of the electoral colleges are getting behind you. He says not to quote him but he thinks this turnaround could be a trend.’
‘At last, some good news,’ said Hank, unbuttoning his jacket, sitting on the couch and crossing one leg over the other. ‘The dirt we dished on Chevalier and his crackhead nephew paid off.’
Garret allowed a grin to sweep the almost perpetual scowl off his face.
‘The only minor dark cloud in all of this,’ Ackerman continued, ‘is that some unkind members of Chevalier’s staff are saying that we dredged up this story and leaked it to the press.’
‘Aww . . . how could they think such a thing?’ said Hank, pouting.
The press had been hungry for new angles on the Democratic candidates. All he’d done was feed the beast. As Garret had demanded, he’d simply peeled off the top of the Louisiana senator’s life, dug around, and found a skeleton. And he hadn’t needed to dig all that deep to find it. Armed with the details, Ackerman had outlined them in an email, which was sent anonymously to a New York current affairs radio program looking to improve its ratings. Once started, the brush fire had gone multimedia and now the flames were searing Chevalier’s reputation. Maybe the senator wasn’t the fair-minded liberal with staunch family values that he’d led the American people to believe he was after all.
‘Is this going to come back and bite us?’ Garret enquired.
‘I don’t think so,’ Ackerman claimed with a smugness that said, ‘Not a chance’. ‘Not everyone in the press wants another bleeding heart in the White House. Guys like Chevalier don’t make for very exciting headlines. The upshot is, Governor, that, according to the polls, if the election was held this week, you would go to bed on Sunday night as the forty-fifth President of the United States of America.’ Ackerman mopped his neck with a splotchy beige handkerchief. ‘You’ve got a press conference in an hour. I recommend that you be gracious in this hour of your adversary’s distress.’
‘Can’t we be even a little smug?’ asked Hank. ‘Definitely not. Hey, it’s news time. You want to see what kind of treatment Chevalier’s getting from the networks now that the story’s broken?’
‘Abso-fucking-lutely,’ said Garret.
Ackerman aimed the remote at the flatscreen on the wall. The picture flashed on. The timing was perfect: Senator Chevalier appeared to be under siege from a media mob, cornered while trying to get into his vehicle. An aide held the door open. The voice of the news anchor could be heard over the picture: ‘ . . . cross live to Senator Chevalier to get his reaction’.
‘Senator,’ said a reporter at the scene, ‘were you aware that your nephew had committed suicide while out on bail?’
‘No, I was not. In fact, I only just heard the news myself this morning. My nephew had chosen for some years to distance himself from the family. Even his father, my brother, was not aware of his son’s state of mind.’
‘Your brother has said that you refused to provide the boy with legal representation when he needed it most. Don’t you feel at least partly responsible for his death?’ the reporter persisted.
Another question was fired at Chevalier before he could answer. ‘Senator, the Gallup poll has you trailing Governor Garret for the first time in quite a while. Do you think that America has already judged you?’
‘And found you wanting . . .’ added Hank.
Senator Chevalier held up his hands in an attempt to calm things down. Garret thought he looked drawn, worried. He should be. His campaign was on the verge of being fed into the shredder, even if his nephew was a bum. Hank had dredged it all up. By the time he was ten, the deceased had a juvenile record for shoplifting. At age twelve he was in the gangs with a reputation for violence. He was selling drugs before his thirteenth birthday—crack and crystal meth—and stealing cars by his fourteenth. By the time the kid was nineteen, he’d spent five of the previous ten years in some kind of correctional facility. He’d been completely disowned by his family, having stolen from them for years to pay for one habit or another. His timely suicide, barely days after the media had learned that Chevalier had personally intervened to deny the young man access to legal services provided by his centers, was just one of those breaks that was good luck for Garret’s campaign and luck of the other kind for Chevalier. Sometimes Fate worked for you, and sometimes she sucked. At the time of his death—he’d jumped off a freeway overpass in front of a truck—according to a witness in the police report, Chevalier’s nephew had appeared to be high on something. Maybe the kid thought he’d fly, Garret mused.
‘First,’ Chevalier said, ‘let me say that my nephew’s death has hit his family hard. Despite his brief, troubled life, he was the son of a mother and father who loved him. He also had family support whenever he asked for it. I personally tried on many occasions to help the boy, but the kind of help I offered—a detox program for drug dependency—was the sort he wasn’t prepared to take. I loved that boy, despite his troubles. He was my family. I was there when he was born, so the news of his tragic and untimely death breaks my heart. Many American families face grief for a variety of reasons. Today, it’s my family who grieves. I ask that you please give me a little private time to commune with his mother and father and God.’
‘Grieving?’ Hank snorted. ‘I read the kid’s sheet. I’d say his parents are high-fiving at his demise.’
‘You’ve gotta admire the way the bastard handled it though,’ Ackerman commented, motioning at the flatscreen. ‘I almost feel sorry for him.’
�
�Why?’ asked Garret. ‘He’s good.’ Ackerman added hurriedly. ‘But you’re better.’
The reporters rushed at Chevalier with more questions. He put up his hands again, this time to signal that he wasn’t going to answer them.
‘Senator, the Gallup poll . . .’ a voice beyond the view of the camera enquired, breaking through a moment of relative quiet.
‘The only poll that matters is the one on election day,’ Chevalier said as he ducked out of sight into his car and the aide slammed the door shut. The crowd of reporters surged forward into the wake of the departing vehicle. Garret aimed the remote at the flatscreen and turned it off.
‘Excellent, excellent,’ said Ackerman. ‘I’m going to have a few words with our press secretary. Tonight’s press conference is important. I don’t want any surprises. I’ll be back in a moment.’ He bounded through the door excitedly and closed it behind him.
‘Looking good, boss,’ said Hank, whose stomach had been churning for the best part of two weeks since the NSA debriefing. ‘Let’s hope nothing comes along to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.’
‘Is there something I should know?’ Garret asked, catching a certain tone in Hank’s voice.
Hank leaned forward and placed a rolled-up copy of Investigator Lana Englese’s progress report on his desk.
‘Read this,’ he said. ‘I’ll let you be the judge.’
December 6, 1990
Forced Labor Camp ZJa5756. Two military helicopters banked low over the outskirts of the settlement and landed on ground cleared of forest beyond the last of the black wood huts. Soon after, four men with the slouch of long-term prisoners accompanied by four armed guards and an officer ambled into the center of the main square, a rectangle of crushed rock and sawdust put down to control the mud when the spring thaw eventually came. They stood in front of the small bronze bust of Lenin, which was raised above head height on a column of stone, and looked around, waiting for something. Nami, grinding the sled across the frozen conglomerate of ice and granite chips, allowed herself furtive glances past her shoulder at the men gathered in front of Lenin’s cold gaze.
The Zero Option Page 40
