GEN13 - Version 2.0 (8 page)

She thought of Grunge.
I guess that answers that,
she thought with a smile.

Since the photos didn’t hold her interest, Sarah decided to amuse herself by reading the captions instead:

“A
devotee of classical music, we asked Bambi whether she saw
Amadeus.
‘Anthony Schaeffer is a jerk!' says the tawny eighteen-year-old. 'Mozart wasn’t some cheap vulgarian. He was one of the greatest musical geniuses of the ages!' ”

The caption accompanied a photo of the “tawny eighteen-year-old devotee of classical music” spread-eagled across a baby grand piano, her hair cascading across the keys.

Lynch came storming back into the room, carrying his coat and looking determined. Without so much as a pause, he headed straight for the front door. “I’m going out,” he said without looking at Sarah. “There are some things I need to check into.”

“Whatever,” Sarah replied, in an off-handed tone. To her way of thinking, the morning’s events all made for entirely too much angst before breakfast.

Once the door slammed behind Lynch, Sarah closed the magazine and let it drop to the floor. She peeled herself off the sofa with a languid air and a knowing smile.

“You’re just in a mood because you know she’s right,”

Sarah said to the space her absent mentor left behind. “Otherwise, you never would’ve let her leave.”

Sarah headed for the gym. She still had a workout to finish.

CHAPTER 5

At precisely five minutes past nine, J. B. Heffler looked at his vague reflection in the frosted glass of his office door, and ran a hand through his thick, gray hair. Ever since “the MBAs took over” (as he put it) back in the 1980s, his work day had started at nine o’clock sharp. So he made it a point to arrive exactly five minutes late each day.

Once his hair was arranged the way he liked it, J. B. pulled the keys from his pocket and unlocked his office door. J. B. smiled as he inhaled the musty odor from his cluttered office, then stepped inside and closed the door. He took off his heavy winter coat and held it in one hand while he took down a hanger from the hook on the back of the door. He was just draping the coat over the hanger when he jumped at the sound of a voice behind him.

“Good morning, J. B.”

J. B. turned to see Lynch leaning comfortably against a file cabinet. “Oh, it’s you, Jack,” he said with a playful smile. “You need to watch that. I’m not a young man, you know.”

Lynch returned the smile, although his eyes still showed the seriousness of his purpose. “Now, now. You’ve still got a couple of good years left in you, at least.”

In many ways, J. B. was a relic from another time, when newspapers relied on paper rather than electronic files. J. B. had run the morgue at the
New York News
for

as long as anyone could remember, maintaining, updating, and indexing the archives of every single story the paper had ever run.

As computers came to play increasingly large roles in newspaper production, it seemed as though the need for a morgue—or an archivist—would have faded into oblivion, right alongside linotype presses and teletype machines. Electronic filing of stories meant that every story from the day’s newspaper could be added to archival databases as soon as the editors approved them for publication. The days of clipping and filing columns of newsprint were long gone.

However, while the technology might have changed, the need for someone who could organize vast quantities of information and find it at a moment’s notice hadn’t gone away. If anything, in the midst of the “information revolution,” the need had grown exponentially greater. J. B. had stayed on top of the new technologies as each had been introduced, adapting to each new direction as it came along and disregarding the ones that soon disappeared.

If that weren’t enough to guarantee J. B.’s job security, there was also the fact that the electronic archive only went back eleven years. Most of the material from the newspaper’s 175-year history was still available only on microfilm or yellowing scraps of paper. J. B. had been given managerial responsibility for digitizing the entire archive, a project that, conservatively, was estimated to take until at least 2022, long after he was scheduled to retire. Not that anyone could imagine him ever retiring. It was far more likely that when the time came, he would pass away and be quietly filed under “H.”

For, you see, J. B. was a self-confessed information junkie of the highest order. His head held a bewildering array of trivia that he could produce off the tip of his tongue without even having to think hard. Whether the topic was obscure quotes from past Middle East leaders or the winners of every Kentucky Derby of the twentieth century (win, place, and show, including their respective running times), J. B. was the man to call. And if there was a question on any topic that he couldn’t answer off the top of his head, he invariably knew where to look.

Still, the fact remained that, with technology making access to past material increasingly easy, J. B. was one of a dying breed. When Lynch stopped to think about that point, it saddened him. Part of the reason stemmed from the fact that, after more than twenty years of occasional contacts, he’d grown to genuinely like the old man. On a more practical level, though, J. B. was one of Lynch’s most valuable resources for information, particularly when he didn’t want to go through more official governmental channels. Mystery novels so often made a big deal about alliances between intrepid detectives and crusading reporters, but the truth was that Lynch found reporters to be a pain.

Especially the crusading ones.

The main problem with reporters was that they were always looking for a story—that next big scoop. Sure, they had access to a broad variety of sources. But for every answer a reporter had ever provided to Lynch, it had always come along with ten or twenty additional questions. Considering how much of Lynch’s time was spent in covert operations, those were questions that he had no desire to answer.

Archivists like J B. were a different story. Where reporters were interested in scoops, archivists were interested in information and history. Plus, there was the fact that people who were nosy and talkative tended not to gravitate toward the quiet, solitary kinds of work to be found in newspaper morgues. In all the time that Lynch had known J. B., he’d never once asked a question that Lynch didn’t feel at liberty to answer.

When J. B. did eventually decide to pack it all in, Lynch would miss him.

“So, what brings you to my little, hovel this time, Jack?” asked J. B.    '

“What always brings me here, J. B.? Information.” “Giving or getting?”

Lynch reached down to produce two well-aged bottles of Glenfiddich.

“Ah, well. Same as always,” said J. B. “Always getting, never giving. But always I tell you, Jack: You don’t need to bribe me anymore.”

“It’s not a bribe. It’s fair payment for a valuable service.”

“Ah. Well, in that case ..J. B. took the two bottles and stashed them in the bottom drawer of his file cabinet. Once they were securely stored away, J. B. walked around his desk, turning on the computer along the way. He sat down in his chair, and watched the machine warm up. “What are you looking for today?”

“A submarine sank early this morning. The USS
Kolodny
.”

“Hmm. This morning, eh? Let’s see if a story’s been filed yet.” J. B.'s fingers ran over the keyboard, and an index of the day’s news stories appeared on the screen. “Yup, slated for page one of the afternoon edition. Looks like we already got a first draft from the reporter—oh, Michael Simons, he’s pretty good-*—and a revised version with a first pass of editor’s notes.”

“Can you pull them both up for me?”

“Sure.” '

With a couple of clicks, J. B. opened two windows of text on the screen. He got up from his chair to let Lynch sit in front of the screen. J. B. took a hefty reference book down from the top of one of the file cabinets. He busied himself with digging up some statistics that had been requested the night before, and basically proceeded to mind his own business.

Lynch began by studying the revised version of the story. It included a few quotes from members of the recovery team, but other than that, presented essentially the same information as had been in the television report. Next he compared the revised version and the original,

side by side. Sometimes, the first draft included facts that were absent from subsequent versions. When that happened, it was generally for one of two reasons. One possibility was that the text had been cut to fit the available space on the page. The second was because someone didn’t like something that had been said, and the offending bits were cut because of either inside influence or fear of a lawsuit.

In this case, however, the differences between the two versions were minor. A few typographical and grammatical errors had been fixed, but other than that, they were largely identical. Apparently, J. B. wasn’t the only one at the paper who thought that Michael Simons was a pretty good reporter.

The public sources were starting to make it look as though Kat was right about the submarine. No one was talking about it as anything more than an accident. Still, Lynch couldn’t shake the feeling that something more was going on.

Lynch frowned. Could the sinking of the submarine have been nothing more than a freak, one-in-a-million malfunction? Was Kat correct? And if so, could it be that Kat was right about Lynch’s own motivations, too? Was this all really about nothing more than cutting the apron strings and letting the young woman leave the nest?

Lynch didn’t buy it. But at the same time, he had to admit that he couldn’t be sure. He needed to dig deeper to find the truth. And that meant drawing on sources that even the
New York News
couldn’t access.

Lynch reached- into his pocket and took out a cell phone. To all appearances, the device was the same sort of telephone that millions of other people carried around each day, frequently annoying everyone around them in the process. Actually, though, the insides of the phone consisted of a scaled-down version of the military TAC-SAT technology that allowed field operatives to be in immediate telephone contact with their home bases from anywhere in the world via tactical satellite. Lynch’s phone didn’t have the reach of true TAC-SAT equipment, and the protection against eavesdroppers wasn’t quite as secure; the full-blown version would have required a satellite dish and mobile power source, all of which would have defeated the purpose of a discreet, portable communication device. But its built-in encryption software and random routing through satellite connections were usually more than enough to serve his needs. Together, they provided him with easy access to a secure, essentially untraceable phone line no matter where he might be.

Lynch punched in a telephone number from memory. It was a number that he hadn’t used in a long time. However, long ago, he’d learned the value of keeping all of his important contact numbers in his head, rather than committing them to paper or an electronic address book.

He listened to the phone ring twice before someone picked up on the other end. “Greenberg,” said the voice. It wasn’t easy to make a two-syllable name sound harried, but the person on the phone had done it.

“Kal, it’s Lynch.”

“Aw, geez, Lynch. I can’t talk to you now. Do you know what kind of hell is breaking loose over here?” “No, Kal, I don’t. That’s why I thought I’d cut through the bureaucratic nonsense and call someone in Naval Intel who might give me some straight answers.”

“Oh, for ... It might surprise you to learn that there’s a reason they call it ‘Naval
Intelligence.'
You think I can just hand out classified information over the phone to anyone who asks for it?”

“I’m not just anyone.”

“No, I know you’re not just anyone.”

“Let’s remember who tipped you off when the Walkers were selling your secrets to the Russians.”

“Yeah, I kn—”

“It would be a shame if our lines of communication had to shut down.”

Greenberg didn’t say anything. Only the hubbub of background noise indicated that the call hadn’t been cut off.

Finally, Greenberg spoke. “This is a secure line?”

“That’s why I called your cell instead of your office line. There won’t even be a record of the call in the daily logs.”

“All right. Call me back in two minutes.”

Lynch’s lips formed a tight smile as he pressed the button to disconnect the call. He put down the phone and turned to J. B. “J. B., I hate to ask, but would you mind going to get yourself a cup of coffee for a few minutes?”

J. B. laid down the papers he’d been reviewing. “That’s right,” he muttered good-naturedly. “Take over an old man’s desk. Kick him out of his own office. This is what they teach you when you get to be a big-shot spy?” With a wink, J. B. left the office and closed the door behind him.

Despite himself, Lynch had to chuckle. He looked back at the computer screen and glanced through the index of the stories that had been filed so far for today’s newspaper. He wanted to see if there had been any other unexplained occurrences that could be tied to the incident with the submarine.