Thin Air (31 page)

Hammond was back in Washington by mid-afternoon. He went straight home to shower and change and prepare briefs for his meeting with Smitty and Gault The admiral's aide called him at 1700 and said, "Come down to the Pentagon at 1745. The meeting will be in Mr. Smith's office. The admiral says to tell you you're putting your head on the block."

"Tell him to sharpen the knife."

Hammond arrived at John Allen Smith's office ten minutes early, to be told that Admiral Gault was already in conference with him. While he waited, he tried to guess what he'd be walking into once he passed through the door.

The civilian Director of Naval Intelligence was a big, courtly, bearded fifty-year-old Mormon. He dressed in baggy tweeds, had a secret weakness for iced tea, and always struck Hammond as being slightly out of place amidst the sleek brass of the Pentagon. But it was Smitty's temper Hammond was thinking about. Whoever crossed swords with John Allen Smith was invariably carried out on his own shield—belly-up and bleeding.

Smitty himself ushered Hammond in, waving him to a chair next to Admiral Gault. "Glad to have you back with us, Nick," he said. "That New Mexico business sounded very ugly."

"It could have been worse, sir," Hammond said.

Smitty nodded. 'The admiral and I have been reviewing the case. What did you find in Los Angeles?"

Hammond opened his briefcase and handed over Xeroxed copies of a handwritten report he had hastily prepared: his conclusions that Traben and Coogan were responsible for the brainwashing activities in order to cover up their involvement in further applications of Thin Air. The paper also explained in brief what Thin Air was.

For the next hour they sifted through details. Hammond answered every question thrown at him, patiently and thoroughly. They were openly doubtful of Rinehart, as he had expected them to be, but in the face of Traben's attempt to send Hammond chasing after Kurtnauer, Rinehart's story smacked more of truth.

Gault was particularly annoyed by Coogan's dual role. "Could we be looking at a
mole operation?"
he asked.

Moles were deep-planted enemy agents who burrow in, go underground, and stay dormant until activated by the control that planted them. "Doesn't look that way, sir," Hammond said. "I don't get any feeling of foreign involvement."

Smitty agreed. "This is a domestic affair. I'm convinced of that. What I find hard to accept is
why?
We're not dealing with any nickel-and-dime outfit. MTL and RTI are big corporations. What are they forking on? Why should they go to such extremes? There's more to this than just the fact the Navy's been compromised."

"Compromised?" Gault snorted. "Let's face it, since some time around 1953, the Navy's been
had!
You know what would happen if certain senators got wind of this. They'd turn it into a three-ring circus! We don't need that kind of media coverage."

"No, but we do need a full-scale investigation," Smitty said. "We have to establish a clear link between MTL and Thin Air."

Hammond took a chance. "I think it would be a serious mistake to involve more people right now." We would just be warning the opposition of our intent—"

"They must know your intent!" growled Smitty in rebuttal. "What do they think the NIS is—National Innocent Society?"

"Sir, I'm
sure they know what we'd like to do to them. But they're acting cocky because they know we don't have hard evidence yet."
      

Smitty studied him through hooded eyes. "Go on."

Hammond wondered if he would end up tossed out on his ear. "I think everything that's happened points to one conclusion: a major effort by a private company to perfect the mistakes that cropped up in a former Navy project. Nothing really illegal in that, except that their security methods indicate it is probably not in the public interest to let them continue. We could nail them right now on the little stunts they've pulled, particularly that business at BUPERS. But we can't just look under the rug and expect to discover what the secrecy's all about. We've got to know
what
we're looking for and
where
to look!" He paused and shifted in his seat. "I think they're close to having what they want. That's why they're stalling for time. If we start throwing agents at them right and left they'll just put a cork, on the operation and stand there laughing at us. We're only effective if they don't know where we're coming from next."

Smitty stroked his beard with absentminded distraction.

Gault was unruffled. "If they're so close to finishing," he asked, "why are they acting like maniacs? They could just shore up their patents and announce them to the world."

"The matter of money, Admiral," said Smitty. "Enormous amounts of it. Where is it coming from? If Thin Air as a Navy project cost a hundred million dollars, and MTL has been working on it in secret for over twenty years, think what that figure would be at today's prices."

"Astronomic..." rumbled Gault

"Right. And even F.P. Bloch hasn't got that much to toss around. Obviously, they're not finished yet: they can't risk a cutoff of funds. That means it's coming from outside."

"Foreign investment?" suggested Gault.

Smitty shook his head. "That only adds unwanted partners. I'll tell you the way I would do it. I'm MTL. I'm a government vendor. My largest source of development money comes from military appropriations. So I just divert funds from legitimate contracts to feed my own private research."

Gault's mouth opened. "You mean Uncle Sam is their partner?"

"Silent and unwitting."
 

Hammond glanced from one to the other, eagerly twitching in his seat, excited by this revelation. Thank God for businessmen in government, he thought, then he said, "Sir, I'd like to forego the full investigation for right now and concentrate instead on their accounting."

"You mean a cost run," said Smitty. Hammond nodded. "How far back?"

"Nineteen sixty-two, the year they were founded." Smitty's eyes slid to Gault and Hammond quickly added, "Sir, I'm sure you see it yourself: if we catch them with their hand in the fiscal cracker barrel, we can simply chop it off. For a start."

Smitty shook his head. "A logical next step, Nick, but not wise, for two reasons. One, it would require Department of Defense approval, and that means an uproar. Two, the GAO belongs to Congress. Before you know it, every mouth in the capital will be flapping. And as you say, Dr. Traben will simply put the cork on. And worse than that, if we're
wrong
..." He shrugged, then glanced at Gault "What do you think, Admiral?"

"I think half-measures are too risky. We should find out more, then throw everything we've got." He stood up. "There's something else we can do without blowing the whistle. Retired admiral I know represents RTI here in Washington. Let me see what I can get out of him."

"Do it," said Smitty. "Anything else from you, Nick?"
 

"I'd like to get some background on Bloch."

Smitty chuckled. "I can do better than that. How would you like to meet him? He's throwing a party Friday night at his Georgetown home. I'll see that you're both invited."

Homewood Drive, along with most of the western part of Los Angeles, was shrouded in a thick blanket of fog. The street lights glimmered weakly.

Special Agent Morrow sat in the back of an old camper and poured himself coffee, from a thermos. He'd been parked across the street from Jan Fletcher's house since seven p.m., peering blearily through a one-way window into the lady's front yard. His only consolation was warmth. He thought with sympathy of his partner, Putnam, freezing his butt off in the Fletcher backyard. He checked his watch: it was nearing five a.m.

A slow-moving car rolled to a stop in the dark area halfway up the street and snapped Morrow to attention. He set down his cup and grabbed the radio mike. "Stand by. Got a possible."

Even as Putnam acknowledged, Morrow realized he'd been hasty. The man who emerged from the car was carrying a stack of newspapers. He walked to the far end of the street in boots that clumped on the pavement. He began tossing papers onto the front lawns.

Morrow depressed the mike button. "Relax, Putnam. Guy's delivering papers." He watched the man work his way back up the street. When he returned to his car to replenish his stock, Morrow sat back and drained his cup.

The next time he looked, the paper man was approaching the Fletcher house. But instead of tossing the paper, he walked up the drive. Morrow watched him drop it at the front door then cut across the grass and disappear through a hedge. Morrow looked for him to emerge on the next front lawn.

It took him a few vital seconds to realize something was wrong. He stabbed the mike button. "We've been snookered. He's going around the right side!"

Putnam shot out from behind a tree in the back garden and raced down the path, catching just a glimpse of feet slipping through an open window.

Morrow heard three clicks from Putnam's set, the prearranged signal that meant unlawful entry. He switched to the police frequency and requested a back-up unit to make a silent approach. As soon as the dispatcher acknowledged, Morrow bolted from the back of the camper and charged across the street fumbling for his master key. He opened the front door and slipped inside the house.

It was dark and he moved hesitantly.
      

Putnam forced himself to wait a few seconds before following the intruder through the window. Once inside, he eased silently along a wall. But he bumped into a little Pembroke table and knocked a lamp to the floor—

Morrow heard the crash and ran for the hallway. He saw a softly glowing panel of light switches and jumped to it, flipping them all on at once.

"FBI!" he shouted. "Stay where you are!"

Jan heard the lamp crash in her sleep. The warning shout woke her up. Groggily, she raised her head from the pillow and peered at her open bedroom door. The hall light blinded her. She could hardly see the silhouette in the doorway, but she sensed something and screamed. Then she saw the glint as the pistol came up, and she froze in disbelief.

Putnam and Morrow spotted the big man in the hallway at the same time. Putnam tired a warning shot as he saw the man's right arm stiffen.

The echo cannonaded down the narrow hall. The intruder whirled, red hair bristling, his beefy face contorted with anger. His arm swung around and his silencer muffled two shots. The second one got the hall light.

Both FBI agents froze in the sudden darkness. The faint sound of a door clicking closed set them in motion again. A quick glance into Jan's bedroom assured Morrow that she was all right. She shrieked when she saw him, but Putnam grabbed his arm: there wasn't time to explain.

Putnam pointed to another bedroom. Morrow pulled out his flashlight while Putnam gently pushed open the door. Morrow played the beam over the room. With a nod to his partner, he dove through the doorway, rolled on the carpet, and came up with his revolver aimed one way, while Putnam rushed in and spread his legs to brace himself the other way.

But they were alone in an empty room.

They stood immobile, eyes flicking around at the walls, the locked windows, the closet....Cautiously, Putnam approached it and slid open the doors from either side. Except for clothes, nothing.
 

 
The would-be assassin had vanished.

When Morrow's heart stopped thumping in his throat, he went to confront Jan. But he had no idea how he was going to calm her down.

18

Hammond waited in the terminal at Dulles International. He was tense and angry—had been ever since he received the call from Special Agent Morrow.

He checked the arrival board. The plane was late. He couldn't relax until Jan was safely with him.
      

It had to have been McCarthy. Was this the great secret MTL had been keeping all these years? Had they created a league of disappearing assassins?
 

McCarthy had vanished from Jan's house the same way he had vanished from the detention cell at the Boston Navy Hospital. And the way Coogan—if it was Coogan—had vanished along with his truck from the field outside Rinehart's home in New Mexico.

But why would a respectable electronics firm be involved in something so penny-ante? Unless it was a sideline, a by-product, an outgrowth of self-protection covering something far more sinister.

That still left Hammond with the same unanswered question: what were they up to?

The jet came in and he watched Jan walk up the ramp, dressed in jeans, a sweater, and dark glasses. She was carrying a stuffed overnight bag, and she was escorted by Morrow.
 

She walked right past Hammond and waited for him by the escalator, giving him the cold shoulder. He couldn't really blame her: he should have told her what could happen. But he hadn't expected such a bold attack.

"Have any trouble getting her out of L.A.?" he asked Morrow.

"No. She got on the plane as Mrs. Morrow, a blonde." He held up a flight bag. "Always wondered what it was like to be married," he said, then added wryly, "Christ, Hammond, I hope you're wearing cast-iron jockey shorts. She's out for blood."