The Eighth Day (11 page)
“Mr. Hiccock, Carly Simone.”
Hiccock was glad to hear from her, but his radar was bristling a bit. “Nice to hear from you, Carly. What’s up?”
“Can I get 10 minutes tomorrow? Something’s come up and I would like to run it by you.”
“I can do that, around three maybe?”
“Fine, I‘ll be there.
“I will be too!”
His Ford Expedition pulled up. He threw the car jockey a five spot. He rolled down the driver’s side window and opened the moon roof; it had turned into a warm and clear evening. He hoped the fresh air would diminish the slight buzz he had going. He was starting to have sssssdsecond thoughts about refusing a personal car and driver. As head of a presidential commission he was entitled to one, but his blue-collar upbringing made him think it was a little too much. Then, a sobering thought crossed his mind. If the cops stopped him right now, it would mean a DWI for sure. There was little doubt Tate would make a federal case out of it. His brief career as a special investigator for the president and, to a lesser extent, a mole for Joey from Gunhill Road would be even briefer. He instinctively slowed down and put his hands at the prescribed ten and two o’clock positions on the wheel and made doubly sure he obeyed all traffic laws.
Pulling into his spot, he shut off the engine and took a deep breath. He was home safe and sound, promising himself he would never do that again. As Hiccock stepped away from the car, his head turned to the sound of a branch snapping. He was startled by a man coming toward him from the bushes. Instinctively, Bill ducked low and, extending his right leg, swept the man’s legs out from under him.
As he fell to the ground, the man protested, “Hey, what the … ahh. Owww.” Hiccock was about to stomp on his face when the “Ow” caused him to hesitate.
“Ow? What kind of mugger are you?” Bill’s fists were still poised to punch his lights out.
“I’m not a mugger. I need to speak with you.”
“Why did you jump out at me like that?” He grabbed the man’s shirt pulling him halfway up, with his arm cocked, ready to clock him, for emphasis.
“I’m not too good at all this cloak-and-dagger stuff,” the man explained nervously, his hands up protecting his face.
Bill sized him up as no real threat and extended his hand. “Here, let me help you get up there, Mr. Bond.”
“Wendell, Wendell Simmons.”
“What’s so cloak-and-dagger that you need to ambush me from my own bushes?”
Rubbing his knee, Wendell looked around. “Inside?”
Twenty minutes later, Wendell was holding a bag of frozen peas on his knee as Hiccock attempted to restore his own equilibrium with strong black coffee. Wendell was a short man who seemed better suited to be an air-conditioning and refrigeration repairman than the research scientist he claimed to be. Seated across from him, Hiccock couldn’t help but imagine this late-forty-something balding man in a blue uniform shirt with “Chuck” or some such name embroidered on it, his shirt pocket holding a dial thermometer and an AC current tester. That image faded as Wendell got deeper into his story. Was this man offering Hiccock the smoking gun evidence he needed? If so, the Intellichip explosion was indeed a case of sabotage.
“My job was to ensure the formula’s integrity as we ramped up to higher volume production runs.”
“Did you work in quality control?” Bill inquired, remembering his brief series of courses in chemical-industrial techniques.
“That was the first flag that something was amiss. I was a technician before I became a project manager. I didn’t have any latitude on the rules. I followed them because I knew they meant scientific repeatability and safety. Then, suddenly I’m meeting with the CEO, who is not a chemist I might add, asking me to fudge results.”
“And did you?”
“Most of the stuff was budgetary. But then he hit me with a doozy. He wanted me to increase the amount of suspension in the formulation originally intended for a plant in Arkansas.”
“And why was that strange?”
“That amount of suspension wasn’t necessary, because the load was being delivered in a matter of days. We suspend to decrease the possibility of unintended combustion or impurities affecting the batch during shipping.”
“So this level of suspension was better suited for something that would take how long?”
“Months—like the shipment was going real far. We had already registered the shipment with the ICC for interstate travel, but to me it seemed as though this batch was going outside the country.”
“And the amount of suspension you added to the batch in the Intellichip building should have inhibited it from exploding that night?
“Absolutely. That formulation was stable and would have remained so until the suspension was intentionally stripped at the point of delivery.”
“How would that have been done?”
“Lots of ways. Any low-boiling-point liquid would destabilize the suspension.”
“Like Freon?”
“That would do nicely.”
“That’s an incredible story,” Hiccock said as he sat back from the edge of his chair. “And you were an engineer on this project?”
Wendell nodded. “The
head
of the project. Thank you for not calling the cops.”
“Mr. Simmons, why are you risking so much to help?”
“Heather Simmons … you wouldn’t know her or recognize her name …” He stared down at the floor. “She was twelve, asleep, safe in her bed, when the windows … the windows imploded, that’s the term. Her carotid artery was severed. By the time I came to, she was so white … and the sheets soaked red …” He looked up at Hiccock, tears in his eyes.
General Nandesera felt a pain in his back. It was his first consciously aware moment since he sat down three hours earlier to review the final operational plans for Samovar. The lactic acid in his muscles made him stiff. His body was used to the military regimen. Sitting still had been an acquired talent –one that he struggled to conquer every day that he sat and thought rather than stood and fought. It had been a while. The last time he actually fought was Afghanistan in ‘89. Overall, he was pleased with the report he had read. His assets were in position. The retribution for the American cruise missile strikes deep within his country would soon be rained down on the imperialist giant that felt it could kill without consequences. The General was about to sign an order making America pay dearly for those punitive attacks carried out towards the end of the last century. All that was needed was an exact position and time in which to execute. That, he was hoping, would be provided by the new “eyes and ears” center supplying the much-needed intelligence. As an old soldier, he would have much preferred hard human intelligence over electronic eavesdropping, especially when the eaves one was dropping in on were public media outlets.
Alone in his office, he signed the order without fanfare or ceremony. As he removed his reading glasses, he sat silent for a moment. Very quietly, his nation had just gone to war with the United States of America, which was already under attack by somebody else; he didn’t know who, maybe the North Koreans, but he knew those events were the perfect diversion and cover for Samovar, his Master Plan.
“YOU’RE TELLING ME that the CEO of Intellichip was illegally exporting chemicals from Mason Chemical to Iran?” said Reynolds. “I don’t believe it!”
“I don’t know if I do either but there are two separate issues here. The illegality aside, if the mixture in the building that night was going overseas, and it was heavily suspended, then it couldn’t have spontaneously combusted or been accidentally ignited by the employee. It had to have been sabotaged. On the other hand, Wendell could just be a disgruntled employee of Intellichip. I think the FBI should check out his story, whether he actually did lose a daughter on the night of the explosion and so on.”
Reynolds raised an eyebrow, announcing that Hiccock just impressed him in some way. “FBI? Handing the ball over to the other team?”
“Let’s just say I don’t want that factory to blow up again, this time in
our
faces. Besides, Tate strong-armed an old friend of mine to grovel for the FBI. They don’t want to be left out of my loop.”
“It’s your call. You know, Bill, your FBI pal probably wrote a report that found its way to Tate’s desk already.”
“Then they better have a good infirmary in the old FBI building there, because if Joey wrote a blow by blow of everything I said, Tate’s going to have a coronary.”
“Now why doesn’t that surprise me? Listen, you aren’t in the pristine realm of science now. You are into an area populated by power-hungry men. Being right isn’t always as important as surviving the political shit storms around here.”
Bill was confused. Reynolds was the last guy he expected to give fatherly political birds-and-bees speeches. “Thank you, Ray, for that insight. I’ll try to remember to always have my umbrella out.”
“Look, whether I like it or not you are now part of my team. I have a vested interest in your survival and Tate knows it. Be careful!”
Bill knew that Reynolds was covering his bets, straddling both sides of the loyalty issue. After all, he, the dumb political guy, could be right. Reynolds was making sure there wasn’t anything more than a few feathers left in his potential serving of crow. Or was he keeping a murky access road open for his boss, President Mitchell, to take as an escape route? Hiccock was stunned to catch himself in the middle of such political calculations and reverie.
Maybe this place is rubbing off on me
.
“How’s it going with the wife … ex-wife?”
“Fine. She’s onto something.”
“Has she found the common tie yet?”
“No, but this is either two-dozen, separate one-in-a-billion coincidences of individual schizophrenia or …” He paused as the scientist in him demanded more empirical data before even speculating on a conclusion. His last words hung awkwardly for a moment. “That’s all I am prepared to say at this time.”
“Very politically astute answer, Bill. You’re learning. I got to hit the head.” Reynolds made his exit, totally misreading Bill’s intention. It would not be the last time.
As William Hiccock left Ray Reynolds’ office he looked at his watch and realized it was five past three. He decided to skip a pit stop to the men’s room and get back to his office to meet Carly.
When he reached his office, she was sitting there, filling his office with a French perfume he should probably learn the name of. He made a small apology and sat behind his desk. She was looking very attractive today. Her hair color had changed. It was now a constant shimmering hue. It almost didn’t look real
.
“Well, what’s on your mind, Ms. Simone?”
“Carly, please.” Hiccock nodded and she continued. “Well, things are happening so fast here at the White House. Yesterday I was offered a job at MSNBC.”
“Congratulations!”
“Thank you. Actually it was in no small part because of you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. You are drawing a lot of attention and they want me to cover you.”
Hiccock was intrigued by her directness. “I’m flattered, but I’m doing classified work here.”
“That’s why I wanted to talk with you first. Do you see any way of me covering what you do while you maintain your need for secrecy?”
Hiccock liked that she was clearing it with him… But wait! He caught himself. “Carly, that’s really a question for Naomi’s press office.”
“Mr. Hiccock, I know what she’ll say. That’s why I am coming to you. You can grant me access, I believe, if you feel that you are being treated fairly.”
“Pardon, but the news media has been anything but fair with me. And don’t quote me on that, please.”
“Trust starts here, Mr. Hiccock. I won’t breathe a word of it. After all, I am a print journalist at heart. I like to believe we hold ourselves to a higher standard.”
Hiccock took in the new television reporter for a moment.
Now
the hair color made sense. He imagined that someone spent two or three hundred dollars on a “colorist” to bring luminosity, highlight, and tone to her soon-to-be nationally broadcast, locks. He found himself smiling at her and her 300-dollar dye job.
It was worth it.
He forced himself to look beyond her good looks and tried to look into her heart to see if she harbored good or evil. He gave that up in short order realizing probably only God could do that.
Were her eyes
always
that blue? w
as the thought that capped his mortal failing at being God-like.
“I’ll talk to Naomi and see what we can do. But, if I say I can’t divulge or talk about something you’ll have to respect that.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ll let you get back to work.”
She stood and extended her hand. Hiccock was amazed at how soft it was. Something was said through the brief eye contact that followed but Hiccock had no idea what that was. She then turned toward the door; he consciously avoided watching her as she left.
CYNTHIA MALLORY RETRIEVED the mail from the box in front of their two-family house in Hollis, Queens. She could hear Dennis out back, trying to get the lawn mower started. She smiled as each pull of the starting cord was followed by chugging, then silence, then some swearing. She entered the house through the front door and proceeded to leaf through the envelopes. One, addressed to her, from Queens Metropolitan Hospital Neurologic Institute, caused her breath to catch slightly. She stuffed it into the pocket of her housecoat. An unfamiliar envelope, addressed to Dennis, caught her eye. She headed out the back door to see her husband adjusting a screw on the top of the uncooperative mower.
“Come on ya piece of … junk,” he barked as he whipped the cord so hard this time it snapped. “Ahhh … crud!”
“Denny, why don’t you just go down to Sears and get a new one?”
“Do you know what they’re asking for one that’s not
half
as good as this?”
“No, I don’t. But how much do they want for one that works?”
That stopped him. She could always stop him. He threw in the towel and the broken cord, smiled, and asked, “What’s up?”
“There’s a letter addressed to you from GlobalSync.”
“Junk mail?” he asked, wiping his hands and heading toward her.
“No, I don’t think so. It looks serious.”
He grabbed it and tore it open. “Holy Christmas!”
Cynthia was glad that he’d been heeding her admonishments to cut down on the swearing. “What dear?”
“Look at this!”
It was a check. There, next to a big greasy thumbprint was the computer-printed amount of $100,000.
“Holy shit!” Cynthia said, violating her own edict. “What’s this for?”
“I dunno. Probably some computer screw-up. I never heard of this company.”
“My God, that’s an awfully big mistake.”
“Let me go call them and see what this is all about.”
“How about we cash it first and wait ’til they call us?”
He smiled and kissed her on the forehead. “Sometimes you exhibit the heart of a jewel thief, you know that?”
“Just think of the shiny new lawn mower we can get you with that. You deserve it.”
“Don’t cozy up to me just because I’m suddenly rich.” He put his arm around her as they headed toward the house. His hand dropped to her behind where he stole a few soft pats then held on, adding, “A small fortune in my hands.”
Six frustrating minutes later, Dennis hung up the phone having made no progress. He decided he needed to go to the GlobalSync offices himself. Cynthia went with him, the letter from the hospital forgotten for the moment.
Janice and Hiccock were escorted by two-uniformed Madison, Wisconsin, cops past the crime scene tape into Martha Krummel’s home. Although the local police already broomed the house, Hiccock and Janice flew here to see it firsthand. There was a chance that Janice could pick up some psychological clues as well. Once inside, the smell reminded Hiccock of his grandmother’s house: it evinced the same Cashmere Bouquet–scented memory. He fingered through a candy dish, found and unwrapped a cherry red sourball, and took one more nostalgic deep breath. They studied each room. The kitchen was locked in a time warp, every appliance the cutting edge of 1960’s Westinghouse technology. Hiccock imagined a woman dressed in a Pat Perkins day dress or in Capri pants like Mary Tyler Moore in the old
Dick Van Dyke Show
, with a casserole and pink oven mitts, singing a song from the 1964 World’s Fair. “
The future will be dandy. The kitchen will be handy. At the Westin
g
house hall of …
”
The living room possessed the quiet comfort of a cozy place where someone smoked a pipe while Martha read or did needlepoint. As he appraised the room, his eyes were drawn to the huge RCA furniture console color television and hi-fi stereo unit. Then, it struck him. In the whole house there wasn’t a stick of furniture, or anything else for that matter, that was acquired after the 1970s. Bill examined her collection of books, all garden-related, while Tyler searched through the drawers.
“There’s nothing here,” he said, his head tilted sideways, reading spines.
“So how did a seventy-something grandma master railroad signaling and control?” Janice asked as she rummaged through a drawer full of hatpins and hair combs.
Out of frustration, Hiccock collapsed in the chair behind Martha’s desk situated in front of the picture window overlooking her garden. To Janice, who was standing behind him, it appeared that he was looking through the window at the now abandoned flowers and shrubs. He wasn’t.
“What’s wrong with this picture?” he said.
“Nothing. She had a great life. I’d like to have it set up like this when I’m her age. Without the federal charges, of course.”
“C’mon, we’re looking right at it!”
“Carly Simone, the White House. Back to you Brian. How was that?”
“You blew it at the end by asking me ‘how was that?’ Never break your attitude until the cameraman says ‘cut!’ You just showed 10 million Americans that you are worried. Now let’s try it again and here’s a trick. Practice a completion face, the face that you will put on when you are finished. It should say, ‘there I’ve told you, but I stand ready to answer any questions you might have on follow up.’ Okay. And camera’s rolling, speed!”
Carly counted down to two then silently to zero and began, “…in 3, 2, … Good evening, Brian. In a move that caught Washington by surprise today, the White House was sold at auction to a bidder from Boulder, Colorado on Ebay!” As she read another gibberish story into the camera that was only feeding a tape machine for her review, Carly’s rehearsal for her new job as White House science beat reporter for MSNBC was taking shape. She was learning “on camera” etiquette, in a crash course, from one of the best field producers at NBC. He had been flown
in
specially from his ranch in Montana and
out
of semi-retirement. The network was hot on Carly and wanted her “on-air” in record time. They worked for two days on when to smile and when not to smile. She mastered the skill of listening to the earpiece and talking at the same time. Eventually they moved on to audio prompting, where she practiced becoming a ventriloquist’s dummy for a producer who would put words in her ear only to be regurgitated a split second later.
Hiccock and Tyler came blasting through the doors that identified the FBI’s Washington, D.C., Electronic Crimes Lab as an “authorized personnel only” area, pushing Martha’s computer on a rolling cart. Kyle Hansen, thirty-two and already the top computer expert for the FBI, followed.
“Is that all of it?”
Hiccock nodded yes. “What’s a seventy-year-old gardening grandmother need with a computer?”
“Careful, Bill. You’ll have the AARP all over you for that insensitive remark,” Janice said.
The technicians hooked up the machine and rebooted it in record time. Hansen got to work.
“You’re looking for any activity that would bring her close to railroad info and practices,” Hiccock said.
“One of our Cyber Action Teams obtained a warrant and secured the ISP’s records from her account. We know when she logged on and for how long, but we only know the material that she downloaded, which was supplied by her internet service provider,” Hansen explained as he typed away.
“We’re going to need more than that and maybe her hard drive will tell us.”
