A War of Shadows, page 19
General Kneissel’s trained, cleared, and hand-picked Intelligence boys tapped eight officers and nineteen noncoms trying to make interesting phone calls. Again the numbers were recorded, and these people joined the staff.
The doctors broke first, of course. One little Iranian doctor who said his citizenship was on the line finally admitted all and told the story of Sandra O’Connell. Crofton, the attendant who’d let her escape, was hauled in next and informed that he was in for highly unpleasant treatment for the kidnapping and possible murder of O’Connell. He broke, blaming Braden for everything.
“Where is Braden now?” Hartman demanded.
Crofton shrugged. “I dunno. An Army helicopter came and got him a couple of days ago and we haven’t seen or heard from him since.”
This was also noted. A circle was drawn around Martha’s Lake, and the Army helicopters capable of getting to Braden within the time frame were catalogued. Flight logs and orders were run through computer networks.
Not having to play by the rules made life a lot simpler, Bob Hartman had to admit to himself.
The helicopter, and the name of the captain who had flown it, was quickly isolated. A Bureau helicopter then took Hartman to a National Guard unit just outside Syracuse.
The Officer of the Day and CQ were surprised and startled by the FBI visit, but the OD had been a used car salesman until the emergency and the CQ had been a supermarket clerk. They weren’t about to argue with the authoritative agents.
In an Army car Hartman traveled in the early hours of the morning to the home of one Captain Irving Wentzel, getting him out of bed. His wife’s protests and shrieks were a bit too much; they had no kids, so they took her, too.
The whole thing had been done under tight security, and yet too many people were involved, too many bystander types and buck-passing types to keep it completely quiet.
While Captain Irving Wentzel was being harshly interrogated as to where he’d gone in that helicopter after leaving Diefenbaker Hospital, somebody called somebody who called somebody else.
Finally, somebody dialed 1-500-555-2323.
TWENTY-TWO
Sam felt relieved by their uneventful capture, and both amazed and grateful that Suzy had been taken so completely unaware and so unable to do anything at all that she was still alive, whole, and hearty. It eased his conscience a great deal.
Suzy had been silent for most of the ride, but now, suddenly, she was getting curious.
“Sam, look at this road,” she said.
He couldn’t see as well, being shackled farther from the tiny barred and screened window, but still he could see what she meant.
It was a glorified, slightly paved cowpath.
They had travelled a long time—an hour or more, they guessed—stopping only briefly for occasional roadblocks, which held them up not a bit. No roadblocks out here, though. This was a combination of farm country and rich people’s homes, the kind with an acre or more of lawn.
Now the van slowed to a stop. Suzy craned her neck to see out the window.
“Anything?” he asked, getting both curious and apprehensive.
“Cows,” she replied, echoing his feelings.
There was a key in the side lock, then a pullback of the van door. The trooper produced a second key and unlocked the cage, climbing in.
“Sorry to put you folks through this, but it frankly was the easiest way to get you through the blocks and into open country like this,” he said.
Both their mouths dropped. “You mean this was planned?” Suzy asked.
He nodded as he unlocked their manacles. “Yeah. Sorry about the lack of warning but your expressions and manner made it all the more convincing back there. Most of those folks were real cops. Sorry we couldn’t make it easier, but Charlie was taking a crap and I was getting a candy bar. Hell, we didn’t know when you’d get there.”
“I wouldn’t use this again, though,” Sam cautioned him. “Hell, Suzy almost blew your head off, and we could easily have gotten ours shot in by some of those real cops.”
He shrugged. “Fortunes of war.” They were free and he helped them out of the van. They stretched and massaged their legs.
“Okay,” continued the phony trooper. “Maybe a thousand meters around that bend is Route 30. When you get to it, make a left and cross the road. About a kilometer up you’ll see an unpaved road on your right—it’s the last road in Maryland. If you go under a sign that says ‘Welcome to Pennylvania’ you’ve missed it. Ten or so old but nice homes up there. You want the last one in, a big old house maybe a century old. It usta be the farmhouse for the place before they subdivided it.”
Suzy was all business again. “Ten houses? Won’t that attract attention?”
He shook his head. “Nope. Don’t worry about it. Most of those folks moved into apartments up in Hanover because of the transportation problem, and others got called out in the emergency, down to Baltimore and D.C. and whatever. If anybody’s in any of those houses now, it’s one of us.”
“Somehow I can’t bring myself to thank you, but it’s been a long day and still there’s a long walk ahead, so goodbye,” Sam said.
The “trooper” smiled. “Okay, good luck and all that. Five got in ahead of you, so things seem to be going well.”
With that he got back in the van, did a three-point turn, and headed back along the way he’d come. “Back to the wars,” Suzy said brightly.
He was thinking the same thing, only for a far different set of reasons.
The neighborhood was on the edge of a deep woods, and the other houses, as they’d been told, were empty now. Mt. Venus Road had at one time been paved, but not for thirty years.
There was a phone installed, with a funny sort of gadget attached which they guessed was a scrambler circuit. All they knew was that there had been a note under it in computer typewriter characters telling them to call in to The Man at midnight each night. If there was no call, then it would be assumed that they had been taken. There was also a caution that any attempt to tamper with or remove the funny box from the phone circuit would trigger a nasty explosive charge.
Nobody wanted to touch it.
The next couple of days were spent just exploring the area. They had no orders or assignments, so they spent the time walking in the woods, doing light housekeeping, and discovering the shuttle bus, a standard yellow one, that made hourly shuttle runs between the state line and the county seat of Westminster perhaps twenty-five kilometers southwest. From there you could get regular busses to the other towns in the county and Greyhound to Baltimore, from whence you could get just about anywhere you wanted—if you had the proper papers to even board the big bus.
They had clothing and money and good fake IDs, so they weren’t too worried, but Suzy was the leader and she ran a tight ship. It was four days later, and all but one of their team had arrived, when they ran out of groceries. Sam volunteered to go, but two others were sent, and he went back to just relaxing, enjoying Suzy and the nice countryside, his conscience fulfilled. He’d tried and failed. Suicide was not in his makeup, not when life was like this.
The next day the phone in the house rang. It startled them; Suzy answered it, half expecting to hear a pitch for storm windows or something.
“This is 1-500-555-2323,” a clear announcer’s type voice told her. “Now, listen carefully, for this will only be said once. Your team is complete, I repeat, complete. The missing member was killed by security forces but did not have the opportunity to betray you. The things you will need and all instructions are buried in a chest in a grove approximately eight hundred meters due north of the house in the woods. It is marked by three white-painted stones, is about two meters down, and has been there since before the emergency. Understandably, the things are still the standard blue, so be careful when transporting them to the house. A single stray individual seeing people carrying blue anything will get you lynched. Anticipating this, materials in a subbasement of your house have been left to change the material into more unobtrusive form, along with instructions. When the transfer is completed, call this number again and report it so. The subbasement is reached by trapdoor under the coal pile. That is all.” There was a click and the line went dead. She stood there a moment, thinking, while the others clustered curiously around. It had obviously been a tape recording.
Sam and two of the others who were muscular made their way into the woods with shovels found in the basement. It didn’t take them long to find the spot; they’d been walking the woods anyway, and most had casually noticed the stones.
“Something’s really fishy here,” Sam told them.
One of the others, a younger man who said his name was Carl, looked up. “What do you mean?” he asked.
Sam pointed to the ground. “Anything buried here was buried a hell of a long time before the emergency. A year at least. Look at the trees and shrubbery. I just find it hard to believe that this could be so well advanced.”
The others shrugged. “So? It was ’cause here it is. Come on! Let’s get digging! If we don’t find it before dark we’ll be chopping each other’s heads in.”
It was at least two meters down, a huge coffin-shaped box four meters long and over a meter deep. It even had handles on it, but it took them until well after dark, with some of the others holding flashlights, before they cleared all obstructions away and brought it up. It took ropes and their combined muscle power to do so; the box weighed over 450 kilograms.
They opened it anxiously but carefully. The clamps had almost all rusted shut and took some nervous taps with a hammer to undo. Finally the top came off.
Inside, packed in cotton, were six baby-blue cylinders with complex valves and nozzles at one end sealed with a waxy compound. To some they looked like single tanks, but they also resembled fire extinguishers with rounded bottoms.
And they were heavy. They weighed almost fifty kilos each.
Also in the box there was an ordinary looking attaché case with a ten-digit touch lock. It was also heavy, but not extremely so, and Suzy took it while the three stongest men each gingerly lugged a blue cylinder back to the house guided by a companion with flashlight, then went back for a second. There was an anxious moment when one was dropped, but there seemed to be no damage and no hissing sounds. They kept going.
Finally they had the worst job. “We have to rebury the box,” Sam told them. “Even if somebody came by and saw a freshly dug area, which is unlikely, they’d hardly be willing to dig all that way. If we tamp it down and there’s one decent thunderstorm, there’ll be no more signs.”
The others protested, but Suzy agreed completely, and she was the boss.
It was past two in the morning when they finished, dead tired.
Suzy made the call. To her surprise there seemed to be a live voice on the other end, not a tape. She could hear the breathing. It wasn’t the same voice, but they were all being distorted anyway, she knew. “The combination is the complete phone number,” the voice told her, then hung up.
She went to the briefcase. Suspecting some kind of explosion if she tried and goofed, she’d just left it there. The cylinders were all in the kitchen, stacked like wood and covered with a blanket, and the others had all gone exhaustedly to bed after eating.
She punched the number on the keys. One-500-555-2323. There was a click and the lid opened as if on a pneumatic riser.
Inside was a foam rubber insert covering the whole inside. Spaces had been cut out, and small bottles, three of them, holding some clear liquid, were strapped in. A cutout below them held a wooden box which, when opened, revealed two dozen wrapped and sealed disposable syringes, some cotton, and a sealed plastic bottle of alcohol. When she took the box out she saw that under the rubber was a thick Manila envelope, and she reached under, having to pry it up where the foam rubber had stuck, and got it out.
The next morning, when they came downstairs for breakfast, a Suzy too excited to sleep greeted them.
“Guess what!” she said excitedly. “We’re the ones who get to hit Washington, D.C.!”
Sam Cornish’s heart sank. “When?” he asked her. “On the sixteenth,” she said.
He looked with the others at the wall calendar. It was September ninth. A week from today, he thought. Seven more days.
Now what do you do, Sam Cornish?
TWENTY-THREE
The phone in Braden’s den rang. Alton got it, talked for a few minutes, then called the self-exiled security man.
“Yes, sir?” he said crisply.
“The Edelman team is on to you,” The Man told him. “They raided Martha’s Lake and have everybody out. They know the whole story. It will only be a matter of time before they’re there now. I had hoped for six more days, but we can live with this. Give O’Connell the treatment, get her out, then you get out, fast.”
Braden nodded absently, fear creating a knot in his stomach. “Yes, sir. At once.” Suddenly he heard a whirring of rotor blades and panic rose. “I hear a chopper now. Do you suppose…?”
“That’s for O’Connell, from me,” The Man assured him. “You get out by boat. Time is short. Move!”
Braden hung up the phone and went out to the dining room. Alton was waiting with two of the other men, Gurney and Stone.
“I talked to him before you did,” Alton reminded him. “Gurney and Stone know where to take her, and the bird’s down and waiting. Shall we?”
He nodded, and the four of them mounted the stairs. The other agents were also busy around, destroying anything that might be of use to the inevitable raiders, shredding and incinerating papers and the like. One of the women was hauling out the firebombs and checking their clocks and fuses.
Sandra O’Connell was in her room, relaxing listening to a Cleveland radio station. She was really depressed; after so much rapid progress over the few days after her escape, she hadn’t improved at all in the past week or more she’d been here. She was beginning to fear that her condition was now at its best state, and the somewhat clumsy attempts to cheer her up by Braden and the staff hadn’t helped but just made her dwell more and more on the drug and its effects. What good was a forty-two-year-old illiterate doctor to anybody?
The four men hurriedly entering the room surprised and startled her. She looked puzzled. “What is it?” she asked apprehensively. She’d heard the helicopter, too.
Alton took a briefcase and opened it on a nightstand next to her bed. Gurney and Stone, looking grim, went over to her and held her down.
“Masquerade’s over, Dr. O’Connell,” Braden told her. “I’m afraid you’ve been had. You see, I was the director at the hospital where you were kept. I was the one who drugged you.”
The shock was almost too much for her. She struggled and started to scream, but a gag was inserted in her mouth and securely tied. Then handcuffs bound her arms behind her back, and despite frenzied attempts to keep them off, a pair of handcuff-like leg irons were attached to her ankles.
“We’d hoped to be able to spare you,” Braden told her, “because you knew so much about biochemical matters. However, that is no longer possible. We could just kill you, of course, but you’ve put us to so much trouble for so long that it would seem a shame to do so without you performing some last service.”
Her eyes showed horror.
Braden reached over to the open briefcase and pulled out a small pump-spray bottle of sealed plastic. There was some sort of wax seal and a tiny gauge on top of it.
“This is what the newspapers so romantically call the Wilderness Organism,” he told her. “As you no doubt know, it is a synthesized bacteria. During its active stage, about twenty-four hours after exposure to air, it is highly contagious. Anyone even remotely in the area will catch it, and it’ll happily live in the air, on walls, floors, anyplace an infected person touches. Of course, after that period its own little disease, the bacteriophage, or antibacterial virus, has at it, and it’s all over for the poor germ. Except that, since it is a catalyst, the damage has already been done to and programmed into the victim’s brain. Three days after exposure, give or take a few hours, and you come down with the nasty symptoms.”
She shrank in terror from the bottle he so playfully held and about which he so casually talked.
“What we do, you see, is infect somebody, then turn them loose in a crowd to spread it,” he continued, obviously enjoying her horror and comprehension.
“Yes, my dear, we’d like you to spread it,” he said. “And you will have a unique honor. So far it’s only been small towns. You will be turned loose in a major city.”
She was obviously trying to say something, and Braden was giving her the full treatment. “Lower the gag for a minute,” he told the others calmly. They looked puzzled, but complied.
“You monster!” she spat at him. “You’ll rot in Hell for this!”
“If such a place exists it will be infinitely preferable to a place with naive little saints like yourself.”
“You can’t make me spread it!” she told him.
“That’s true, normally,” he admitted. He put the bottle back in the briefcase and brought up another, smaller one filled with a reddish liquid and a syringe. “Know what this is?”
She shook her head, waiting for the next terror. “It’s mitoricine,” he informed her.
She gasped. “No, no, you wouldn’t…”
“A big, big dose,” he said with relish. “We’re going to give you a nice chemical lobotomy, then turn you loose in the big city just sprayed filthy with the Wilderness Organism. But—don’t worry. The mitoricine contains a vaccine for this particular strain. You won’t catch it. You’ll go on and on and on… as a mitoricine retard.” He looked at the others, his expression and tone all business again. “Put the gag back and hold her!”
She tried to shrink from it, tried to get away, but she couldn’t move, and she felt that horrible needle penetrate her arm, saw the massive amount of red liquid being pushed into her, and was helpless.
