The Siren Project (8 page)

“Ah. And how is Harry? Do you know him
well?”

“He’s doing fine.”

“And his wife?”

Mitch looked confused, then leaned forward
confidentially. “Didn’t you know? Harry is . . . you know.”

“You mean a fag?” Rayborne said with a sly
grin.

Mitch nodded, a little embarrassed to
mention it.

“I knew. I just wanted to make sure you
did. So, how can I help you?”

“Our company will shortly be bidding on
some government contracts. We'd like to make sure that influential people, such
as yourself, see the benefits of giving our company . . .” Mitch searched for
the right words.

“Preferential treatment?”

“Exactly.”

Rayborne nodded understandingly, then cut
straight to business. “What contracts?”

“High technology, in the defense systems
area.”

Rayborne furrowed his brow perplexed. “My
secretary told me you represented a fertilizer company. Something about a
phosphate amendment?”

Mitch nodded a little embarrassed, thinking
he should have given Mouse more precise instructions about their cover. For
some reason, Mouse had found the notion of Mitch as a fertilizer salesman
amusing. “Our company does have a fertilizer business, however we also have
substantial interests in the Californian electronics industry. If we publicized
the fact that we were interested in some upcoming defense contracts, then our
larger competitors might try to undermine our efforts.”

“Of course. What are these contracts going
to be worth?’

“Several tens of millions of dollars,”
Christa said.

Rayborne’s interest rose visibly. The
smaller projects received less scrutiny than the big ticket items, which an
enterprising man like Rayborne could convert into creative opportunities. “What
kind of preferential treatment were you looking for?”

“We’d like background information on key people
involved in the project, so we could visit them, and privately discuss the
merits of our tender.”

Rayborne interpreted that as bribing other
officials. “Sounds like a reasonable request.”

“It’s call the Siren Project,” Christa
explained. “We’re particularly interested in contacting one of the project
leads, a Doctor Erich Steinus.”

“I see,” Rayborne said thoughtfully. “And
then later, when the contracts are about to be awarded, if you are not the
favored vendor, a more favored bidder may be found wanting for . . . technical
reasons.”

Mitch nodded appreciatively. “Exactly.”

Rayborne pursed his lips. “And why don’t
you contact this Doctor Steinus directly?”

“We’re not sure where he is. You know how
these classified projects are, getting in touch with key people is not easy.”

“I understand.” Rayborne paused in thought.
“I believe I am in a position to help you, but you should know, this kind of
assistance can be a complex business. Naturally . . . there are expenses.”

“Of course,” Mitch agreed, waiting for the
price.

“Because Marsin is a valued . . . associate,
I’ll do it for you at a cut rate. Say five percent.”

“Five percent?” Mitch asked a little
confused.

Rayborne looked surprised. “Your people at Marsin
didn’t explain my terms?”

“Well,” Mitch said a little embarrassed, “I
asked them to recommend someone we could deal with. We didn’t discuss money.”

“Ahh, rightly so. Five percent of the
contract value.

“Of the
contract
value?”
Christa gasped.

“Indeed. If the contract is twenty million,
then my share is one million dollars.”

Mitch’s eyes widened.

“You seem surprised. Surely a twenty
million dollar contract, which you may not win without my help, is worth at
least a million dollars in gratuities.”

“I see your point,” Mitch said, convinced. “You
have a deal, Mr Rayborne.”

“Now, there is the matter of my retainer.”

Christa forced herself to remain seated,
suppressing her growing rage.

“How much do you require?” Mitch asked

“Fifty should be sufficient.”

“Fifty is fine with us,” Mitch replied evenly.

Mitch exchanged contact details with
Rayborne, then they shook hands and excused themselves from his office.

Outside, Christa exploded. “What a worm! Do
you know how many people sleep on the streets while that jerk is picking our
pockets!”

Mitch read Rayborne’s banking details,
amazed. “He’s not only a greedy, corrupt asshole, he’s confident too. He wants
the money in a Washington based bank a couple of miles from Capitol Hill. You
would have thought he’d at least send the money offshore.”

“When this is over,” Christa said, “He’s
going to jail.”

“I’ll testify for the prosecution, but I
want immunity!”

* * * *

“Lieutenant Commander Donovan Hayes,”
Mitch said, introducing the lanky naval officer, “Christa Malleson.”

Commander Hayes, a career naval officer
with a bent nose from an army-navy game, greeted Christa warmly, then gave
Mitch an impressed look. “You’ve come up in the world, Mitch old boy.”

“It's just business,” Mitch assured him.

“Out of respect to you, Christa, I won’t
tell you the stories I have on this guy. We used to play football together. Let's
just say, he's the most disreputable Marine I ever knew.”

Christa smiled. “Where Mitch is concerned,
nothing would surprise me, Commander.”

“Whatever the reason, an old sea dog like
me always likes to see a pretty lady on deck.” Hayes looked around his rather
cramped Annapolis Naval Academy office, filled with pictures of the submarines
he’d served on and some of the shipmates he’d known. “It’s kind of cramped here.
Should we head on down to the galley for lunch?”

“I’d rather stay here a while,” Mitch said
meaningfully.

“Perhaps the lovely lady wants to head on
down to the galley, and God knows, I’m a galley slave around a pretty face.” He
grinned mischievously at Christa.

“Actually Commander, Mitch is right. Your
cafeteria would be too public to discuss what we came here for.”

Mitch produced a small compact disk that Gunter
had recorded the electrostatic sound from the Newton Institute onto. “I’ve got
something I’d like you to listen to. You used to be a good sonar man.”

“Still am!” he declared proudly. “None
better.”

“I thought maybe you could make something
out of this.”

Hayes gave the disk a puzzled look. “I thought
you'd left the Secret Service, Mitch?”

“I’ve been asked to do a little contract
work for Uncle Sam.”

“That recording is classified, Commander,”
Christa explained. “So, whatever conclusions you draw from it, don't leave this
room.”

“Ahh, now I get it.” Hayes said knowingly,
looking between Mitch and Christa. “You’re working for her?”

“Something like that.”

“So you must be. . .?” Hayes asked,
glancing thoughtfully at the disk. “NSA?”

“You should know better than to ask a lady
that question, Commander.”

Hayes chuckled. “You’re a lucky man, Mitch
, I always wanted to take orders from a woman.” Hayes turned his attention to
the disk. “Okay, exactly how classified is this thing?”

“The kind you get the electric chair for if
you give it to the enemy,” Mitch informed him.

“Guess I won’t be selling it to the highest
bidder, then.”

“You won’t break any laws by listening to
it,” Christa reassured him.

Hayes sat down at his desk and played the
disk through his computer. He pursed his lips thoughtfully when the recording
finished. “Not much to go on. I don’t have the processing power they have on
the subs, but let’s see what we can make of it.” Hayes activated several
programs, not one available outside the military, and analyzed the sound for
twenty minutes. He grunted occasionally, muttered curiously several times, but
mostly worked in silence. Eventually he sat back, his hands behind his head.

“Do you know what it is?” Christa asked.

“Electrical energy in flux, that's highly
activated charged particles. The rhythmic sound underlying the electrical flux
is a generator. Not sure what type. Might be producing a magnetic field, but I
can't be sure. And there’s that damned scream in there, no idea what that’s all
about.” Hayes gave Mitch a curious look. “The real problem is the quality of
the recording. Made by a long range directional mike, I guess?”

Mitch pulled a piece of paper Gunter had
given him from his pocket. “If it’s any help, the sensor was an ‘ultra sonic
MX40 parabolic audiotron’.”

“I’ve heard of it,” Hayes muttered with a
hint of admiration. “Illegal to civilians, but very nice. I won’t ask how you
got hold of one . . . I can dig up a spec on it, filter out its bias.” Hayes
shook his head thoughtfully. “The God damned noisemakers kill a lot of the frequencies,
but someone’s done a good job filtering them out.”

“Amazing, you can tell all that in just
twenty minutes,” Christa said approvingly.

“You get a good ear tracking Russian
boomers. Can I keep this? I can run a detailed analysis with the Academy
facilities, we have a decent signature library that might turn up something.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Mitch said.

“Any idea what this is a recording of, anything
that might show me where to look?”

“It could be anything from a high tech
weapon to a hair dryer,” Mitch replied.

“Not sure the signature library has much on
hair dryers.”

“Just be careful,” Christa warned. “If the
wrong people knew you had this recording, you’d be in a lot of trouble.”

Mitch revealed the gun he was carrying. “She’s
not talking legal trouble Don.”

Commander Hayes raised his eyebrows. “I’m a
submariner, Mitch, not a gunfighter.”

“I just don’t want you underestimating the
opposition.”

Hayes looked thoughtful. “Understood.” He
ejected the disk from his computer and placed it in his pocket. “All right! Are
you swabs ready for the galley now?”

The telephone on Mitch's bedside table
woke him, just after midnight. He rolled over and grabbed for it blindly. “Hello?”

“John Mitchell?”

“Yeah,” he yawned, forcing himself awake.

“This is Lawrence Rayborne, from the
Appropriations Committee.” His voice was agitated, a mix of anger and fear.

Mitch sat up. “Yes, Mr Rayborne. You’re
working late.”

“We need to talk.”

“You’ve got something for me?”

“I want to know just what the hell you’ve
got me into!”

“What do you mean?”

“I asked a few questions about this Siren
thing, and now I have these people all over me. They’ve been watching me all
day. Asking me questions.”

“What people? Who did you talk to?”

“One of the senators. You didn’t tell me
this was a black project. I never get involved in those things. I want to give
you your money back. The deal’s off.”

“A black project?”

“Be in my office at ten, tomorrow. I’ll
give you a check for the money you deposited in my account, and then there’ll
be no more communication between us. Good night.” Rayborne hung up, leaving the
busy signal buzzing in Mitch’s ear.

He’s afraid.

* * * *

Mitch and Christa arrived at
Rayborne’s office a few minutes before ten. Mitch had wanted to leave Christa
in the hotel because he now assumed Rayborne’s office was under surveillance,
but she was implacable. When they reached the outer office, the secretary was
nowhere to be seen and Rayborne’s inner office door was closed. Christa took a
seat while Mitch looked around the reception area, then glanced out into the
hall searching for someone to announce their arrival. Finding no one, he
wandered over to Rayborne’s door and placed his ear close to it, but heard
nothing.

“Can I help you?” a woman’s voice sounded
from the hallway door.

Mitch spun around, then silently cursed
himself for being caught off guard. “Yes, we have an appointment with Mr
Rayborne at ten.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought all his appointments
had been cancelled. Mr Rayborne is sick today.”

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

The woman shrugged helplessly. “No, I
don’t.” She stepped into the office. “He’s been working very hard, and is
taking some personal time, on doctor's orders.”

Christa stood up slowly. “What do you mean?”

“We got a phone call this morning from a
doctor telling us Mr Rayborne has been hospitalized due to a stress related
illness.”

“Would you have the name of the hospital?”
Mitch asked. “We’re friends, and I’d like to send him a get well message.”

The woman’s demeanor brightened. “I wrote
it down. I’ll get it for you.” She stepped out of the reception area and
hurried off down the hall.

“He was definitely coming here this
morning, wasn’t he?” Christa asked.

“He was so pissed, and scared, he’d be here
even if he had a nervous breakdown and two broken legs.”

She opened Rayborne’s office door. Finding his
office deserted, she walked in, stopping in the middle of the room as if
listening for something. After a moment she moved toward Rayborne’s desk
cautiously, taking up position behind his chair. She slid her hands across the
leather upholstery slowly, as if studying the quality, but her eyes stared off
into space, deep in thought.

Mitch stood in the doorway watching her curiously.
“What are you doing?”

“I don’t think he’ll be coming back to this
job,” she said softly. “Ever.”

Mitch was struck by how white her face had
become, and the faraway look in her eyes.

“He’s not suffering from stress,” she
whispered.

“The chair told you that?” Mitch asked
incredulously.

Her eyes regained focus. “Did he call you
from here?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

The secretary returned with the hospital's
details, giving Christa a suspicious look. “You’re not supposed to be in here,
Miss.”

“Thanks,” Mitch said as he took the sheet
of paper out of the woman’s hand, before she could change her mind, then
stepped past her and headed for the door. “I’ll be sure to let Mr. Rayborne
know how helpful you were.”

Christa hurried after Mitch without
offering an excuse to the woman. By the time they were outside the building,
the color had returned to her cheeks.

As they walked to the car, Mitch asked, “What
was all that about, in Rayborne’s office?”

“Rayborne isn’t going to be of much help to
us now,” Christa said, brushing his question aside.

“How do you know?”

“Call it . . . woman’s intuition.”

Mitch thought there was a trace of sadness
in her voice, which surprised him, considering how much she detested the greedy
little bureaucrat.

* * * *

Mitch parked in front of a two story
southern style building, surrounded by neatly manicured gardens.  The hospital
had a picturesque view of Chesapeake Bay, and felt more like a convalescent
home for wounded soldiers or the elderly, than a medical facility.

At the front desk, they were met by a nurse
who directed them toward Rayborne’s ward. They passed through the main
building, out into expansive gardens enclosed on all sides by hospital wards. Narrow
concrete paths crisscrossed the common, which was partially sheltered from the
summer sun by large sycamore trees. Patients sat peacefully on park benches,
and in wheelchairs, all under the watchful supervision of white clothed nurses.
The only sound above a whisper was the chirping of birds in the trees.

Mitch and Christa followed the path toward
Rayborne’s ward, passing a nurse pushing a wheelchair containing a young boy,
his head bent forward at an odd angle. The nurse stopped to wipe spittle from
the boy’s shirt as he drooled on himself.

When they were out of earshot, Mitch
whispered. “This is a nut house, not a hospital.”

“Yes,” she said unsurprised.

Mitch noticed the vacant looks on the
patients sitting absently under the trees, then as they approached the ward, he
said, “If there are guards outside his door, we keep walking.”

“If I’m right, Mitch, Rayborne will be
unguarded.”

“Right about what?”

“His condition.”

Mitch looked confused, but she did not
elaborate.

They entered the ward through white,
freshly painted, double doors. Inside, visitors whispered in hushed tones to
the patients they had come to see, and occasionally a nurse would walk past. Down
the hall Mitch spotted a man with his hands in his pockets leaning against a
wall outside a room. The man watched people coming and going, glancing at Mitch
and Christa as they approached, and for a moment, Mitch thought he was a guard.
When they were halfway to him, an old woman ambled out of the room in her night
gown, helped by a white coated orderly. The man bent down and kissed the frail
old woman on the cheek.

“Ready, Grandma?”

The old woman seemed to be unaware of what
he said, so he took her arm and led her to the far door, and the garden beyond.
Mitch relaxed, then began reading room numbers. When he found Rayborne’s room, he
checked the hall was deserted before entering. Inside the room were four beds. Three
were empty. One contained Rayborne, lying peacefully, as if heavily sedated. He
was dressed in a white hospital gown and stared blankly out of the window at
nothing. Mitch was struck by the complete absence in his eyes, and his oblivion
at their arrival. Christa stood at the end of the bed studying his face while
Mitch shook Rayborne’s shoulder gently.

“Rayborne, can you hear me?”

Rayborne’s glazed stare was unwavering. Mitch
glanced at the door to make sure no one was watching, then he pulled the sheet
back uncovering Rayborne’s body.

“What are you doing?” Christa whispered.

Mitch studied Rayborne’s head, turning it
left and right. “Looking for injuries.” He ran his hands down both of
Rayborne’s arms, quickly checked his chest and legs, then replaced the sheets. “He’s
as clean as a whistle. No broken bones, no bruises, no sign of a struggle. I
can’t see a man of this size going down without a fight.”

Christa sat on the bed and stroked
Rayborne’s head gently. “Lawrence, blink twice if you know I’m here.”

Rayborne’s eyes continued to stare emptily
into space.

Christa stopped stroking his head and
relaxed. Mitch watched her eyes take on that far away look again as she
concentrated. After a few moments, she turned to Mitch and shook her head. “He’s
gone.”

Mitch looked at Rayborne confused. “What
does that mean exactly? Gone?”

“He has no cognitive ability. No trace of identity.
His body still functions, but Lawrence Rayborne no longer exists.” She sighed,
then walked out into the hall.

Mitch glanced at Rayborne curiously, then
followed her out. He went to the nurse on duty, who smiled politely as he
leaned toward her.

“Excuse me,” he said, “I’m Mr Rayborne’s
brother-in-law. His sister asked me to check on him before she came up with the
kids. Could tell me what happened to him?”

The nurse nodded and called up Rayborne’s
records on her computer. “Mr Rayborne was brought in early this morning, about
five AM. He’s had a preliminary brain scan, apparently he’s had . . . “ she
looked up, gauging if she should tell Mitch the truth. “Perhaps you should talk
to a doctor.”

Mitch waved her to continue. “Give it to me
straight. I don’t want the kids coming up here if it’s really bad.”

“He’s had a massive brain hemorrhage, cause
unknown. There are no tumors or blood clots in the brain and his bodily
functions are unimpaired. I'm sorry, but he’s suffered severe and irreparable
brain damage.”

“I see. Who brought him in?”

“He came by ambulance. I don’t know who
arranged for the ambulance.”

“Thanks.”

Mitch followed Christa out to the garden
path that led back toward the car. “I don’t get it. What makes a guy like that
flip out so bad. He turned into a vegetable literally overnight?”

“He didn’t ‘flip out’,” Christa whispered,
her voice wavering with emotion. “It was our fault.”

“How could it be our fault? He’s been
sweating on someone catching him for years now. He slipped up, someone started
investigating him, and he cracked.”

“No, this was no accident.”

“How can you be so sure? There wasn’t a
mark on him.”

“Because I’ve seen it before,” she replied,
falling into a stony silence.

Mitch remembered what Knightly had said to
him that first night, and the memory chilled him:
There are
some things worse than death.

Mitch clambered out of the shower, not
bothering to towel off as he hurried to answer the telephone.

“Be out front in five minutes.” Mathew
Prescott said quickly, then hung up.

Mitch pulled on his clothes, then hurried
down to street level where a blue Ford pulled up in front of the hotel. Mitch
climbed in, then Prescott pulled into traffic barely waiting for the door to
close.

Prescott lifted a finger to his lips
ordering silence, then pulled a small black box out of the glove compartment.
He depressed one of the plain gray buttons on top of the box, then set it down
in the coin tray. “I check the car daily for bugs, but you never know. That
should disrupt any radio signals leaving the car.”

“Expecting trouble?”

“Just cautious, considering who we’re
dealing with. Safer here than in your hotel.” He handed Mitch a buff colored
envelope. Inside were the photographs Mitch had given him several days before,
a report pinned to each photograph. Prescott pointed to the photographs of the
two men who'd left the Newton Institute. “Those guys are civilians, an
electrical engineer and a computer systems engineer. Nothing special about
either of them. Both have worked in the defense industries for most of their
careers.”

Mitch glanced at the notes on each
engineer, then slipped their dossiers to the rear.

“Now that guy’s interesting,” Prescott
pointed to the picture of the well dressed man in the dark suit who had entered
the Institute. “His name is Richard McNamara. Ex-NSA. He left about two years
ago, and promptly disappeared off the face of the Earth. He’s been involved in
intel ops against rogue states in the Mid East and Africa. It’s all there.”

Mitch examined McNamara’s history. “Iran,
Yemen, Somalia, terrorist training camps in the Sahara. He’s been a busy man.” Mitch
noticed McNamara’s last couple of years in the NSA were conspicuously obscure. “What
does this mean? Secondment 721?”