He analyzed the recordings for hours until he came upon the electrostatic burst. It fascinated him. He filtered the sound a hundred different ways, increased and decreased sampling rates, sped up and slowed down replay speeds, until he had a profound understanding of the quality of the sound. Only one fragment of sound, buried under the electrostatic noise confounded him. He'd sensed, more than heard it, while listening in the van. That morsel became the center of his world. Deeper and deeper he reached, seeking to reveal its nature. Finally, he signaled Mitch, who had just finished downloading the photographs he'd taken that day.
“Got something?” Mitch asked.
Gunter pulled his headphones down to his neck. “What do you make of this?”
A slow pulsating sound, overlaid with sharp crackling static, played through the speakers while a single smooth tone rose up, then fell away rapidly.
Mitch shrugged. “Sounds like my TV, when the aerial needs tuning.”
“That was played at one twentieth normal speed. The electrical pulsing sound is a machine. It is rhythmic, even though it has an erratic electrical quality. But this is different. Listen.” Gunter played the recording again, moving his hand in time with the rising and falling tone.
Again, Mitch shook his head. “A cow mooing?”
“Now listen at normal time. It does not last long.” Gunter replayed it again. This time the electrostatic sound hissed rapidly, then a sound emerged from it momentarily.
Mitch bit his lip, perplexed. “Too fast for me. Too much static.”
Christa approached curiously. “Play it again.”
Gunter replayed the recording fragment for her, running it through several times at different speeds.
“It’s a scream,” she said at last. “A man, in . . . terrible pain.”
“Ya. From my frequency analysis, I conclude the sound was made by a male, between thirty and fifty years old.”
“Do you think there was an accident?” Mitch asked. “An experiment gone wrong?”
“No,” Christa said with certainty. “That’s no accident. That is the experiment.”
Mitch and Gunter exchanged curious looks, then listened carefully to the sound again.
* * * *
Christa wrapped her hair in a towel and finished dressing after her shower. She adjusted the ill fitting men's clothes she wore, hung her own freshly washed clothes from a makeshift line in Mitch’s bathroom, then walked out to the dining room. Mitch sat alongside Mouse, looking at a computer screen, while Gunter relaxed in a lounge chair, reading a newspaper with a gloomy look on his face.
“Do you have a hair dryer?” she asked.
Mitch pointed to his close cropped military style hair cut. “Do you think I need one with this?”
Christa looked irritated. “I'll take that as a no. I guess that means, no comb or brush?”
“Don’t need them.” Mitch recognized the shirt and trousers she was wearing. “I thought I said you couldn’t wear my clothes.”
“I’ve got to wear something while I wash my clothes.” She pulled the trousers up a little, but they were clearly too big for her.
“You can get all the clothes you want, as soon as you decide to go back to Uncle Gus.”
“I guess I’ll just have to keep wearing your clothes, because I’m staying.” Christa flopped into a chair, unwrapped the towel and began combing her wet hair with her fingers.
Mouse brought Mitch's attention back to the computer screen. “Whatever Siren is, it’s buried so deep, Yoda couldn’t find it with the Force. There’s nothing on the crackable Pentagon systems, nothing in the conspiracy journals.” Mouse grimaced. “I was sure if there was a secret weapons project, they’d know about it.”
Christa looked up confused. “Conspiracy journals?”
“Lunatic fringe antigovernment magazines,” Mitch explained. “Mouse loves them.”
“They were right about Roswell weren’t they?” Mouse declared defiantly. “And Tunguska!”
“Only in your imagination, conspiracy boy,” Gunter said, looking up from his newspaper, sensing Mouse was about to bore him to death with another passionate diatribe. Christa was surprised to see Gunter reading the Wall Street Journal.
“What about the security organizations?” Mitch asked.
Mouse shook his head. “The NSA just changed their security protocols again, so I got zip from them. I’ve got a back door into a CIA data center, but it’s low level. No joy there either.”
“Okay, time I jump the red eye to Washington, start things rolling over there.”
“What’s in Washington?” Christa asked.
“A buddy of mine,” Mitch replied. “He’s still in the Service. I’ll get him to run a check on Steinus, and the photos I took at the Institute. That’ll cost your people twenty grand.”
“I thought you said he was your buddy?”
“He is, but this is business, and I’m asking him to conduct an illegal search. He’ll need another ten to fifteen to snoop around for a whisper on this Siren thing. While I’m over there, I’ll grease one of the bureaucrats working for the Senate Appropriations Committee. There might be some reference to Siren in the classified Committee papers. Someone’s got to be funding it. That’ll cost at least another hundred.”
“You can’t bribe the Senate Appropriations committee!” Christa said, sitting up.
“I’m not bribing the committee, just one of the bottom feeders who live off the gravy train. You can arrange with Knightly to send the cash we need.”
Christa looked doubtful. “Suppose they turn you in when you offer them the money?”
“You obviously haven’t done much business in Washington. Lobby money is legal, bribes aren’t, there’s a difference. It’s all in the spelling.” Mitch turned to Gunter. “G, you know a lot of people in the electronics business, people who handle bids on government contracts. Find out who’s soft, close to the Appropriations Committee.”
“I will have a name for you before you leave.” Gunter folded the newspaper and sighed. “Then, I must pick up my tapes.”
Mitch shook his head, solemnly. “Can’t do it, G, it’ll break security.”
Gunter sighed. “The NASDAQ is falling, the Dow is down. I got to hear those tapes. I am losing a fortune.”
Mitch looked sympathetic, but was immovable. “You’ll get it back.”
“What tapes?” Christa asked.
They both ignored her.
“Then I must sell now,” Gunter said. “With or without information.”
“You know the deal G, total blackout, except for the case.”
Gunter grunted, unable to hide his agitation. “This will hurt.”
“What tapes?” Christa persisted.
Mitch turned to her. “Gunter plays the market, but only bets on sure things. Knightly knew about it. I guess he didn’t brief you on everything, Princess.”
Christa gave Gunter an astonished look. “You’ve got Wall Street bugged?”
“Just a few key locations, enough to know what is going to happen, before the market does.”
“You’re an insider trader?”
“Informed speculator,” Gunter corrected.
“We’re conducting a major undercover operation, and you’re making a career out of cheating Wall Street!”
“Nein. Industrial espionage is my profession. Cheating Wall Street is my hobby.” Gunter’s face cracked for the first time, betraying the hint of a smile.
Christa looked at the smiles on all their faces. “You really are a bunch of thieves.”
“You want something stolen, Princess, ask a thief. The Professor knew what he was doing when he hired us.” Mitch sobered. “So G, no tapes, no trades, not this time.”
Gunter nodded sadly, mentally counting the money he was going to lose. “Agreed.”
“I’ll be on the plane tonight,” Mitch said. “Back in a few days.”
Christa pointed to herself meaningfully. “We’ll be on the plane tonight.” She starting w
iping the towel over her hair, squeezing the moisture from it.
“Oh, so now you want a free ride with a thief?”
“Unlike you, I am focused on our mission.”
“There’s no need for you to go.”
“There is.”
“I’m listening.”
“Trust me, I need to be there. Besides, if you’re spending our money, someone has to keep you honest.”
“I’m anything but honest, Princess.”
“I can see that.”
Mitch sighed. “Okay, two tickets to Washington. Mouse, pick a hotel you can control from here. You know what I mean. Arrange for transport, and order some heat to meet us there. I won’t get a weapon onto the plane and I don’t want to be naked when I start asking questions.”
“Will do,” Mouse nodded. “There are plenty of gun companies on the East Coast doing e-commerce. They won’t even know I was there. You want concealable, or heavy?”
“Both, and Christa’s weapon of choice is a Colt Combat Elite. We’ll also need a cover. Something that’ll give us reason to lobby Appropriations Committee people. Nothing too important. Nothing defense related. Something so inane no one will have any interest in us.”
“Inane huh?” Mouse looked thoughtful for a moment, then grinned wickedly. Without another word, he turned back to his computer, leaving the others wondering what Mouse’s oddball sense of humor had come up with.
Chapter 3
Mitch and Christa entered the small restaurant less than a mile from Capitol Hill and sat down opposite a slender man wearing a neatly pressed suit and smoke gray glasses. Mathew Prescott had joined the Secret Service the same time Mitch had, although he fared better with the hierarchy that ran it, because he kept his opinions to himself. When Mitch introduced Christa, Prescott gave him a dark look.
“Don’t worry,” Mitch reassured him. “Christa represents the client. Whether she’s at the table or not, she’ll know what goes down.”
“No offence Miss Malleson, but I prefer to have as few people as possible involved.”
“Anything we discuss will remain strictly confidential,” Christa promised, “You have my word on it.”
Prescott looked dubious, but before he could say anything, the waitress came to take their order. They asked for coffees all round, then when she’d moved out of ear shot, he said, “I was surprised to get your message, Mitch, I thought you were out of the security business.”
“I’m into more lucrative ventures these days, gathering background information for lobby groups. Kind of boring, but profitable.”
“I heard the FBI was interested in you, something about industrial espionage and a suspected murder. I always knew you were a hard ass, Mitch, but I never thought you’d whack any one.”
“The FBI has a file on everyone, it doesn’t mean dick. Besides, they keep losing the file. It seems their computer system mysteriously deletes anything associated with my name. It’s called the Mitchell virus, because it only affects people with Mitchell in their name.”
Prescott chuckled, relaxing a little. “So you’re still hanging around with that computer nerd. I thought someone would have put him in jail by now, or stuck him in the NSA.”
“I assume you’re still interested in some freelance work, especially if we can place the money offshore?”
Prescott glanced uncertainly again at Christa, weighing up the risk of talking openly in front of her. “Could be. What are you looking for?”
The waitress brought their coffees, then when she’d gone, Mitch produced a plain brown envelope and slid it across the table. “These are photographs,” he said, nodding to the envelope containing prints of the pictures he'd taken at the Newton Institute. “I want to know, of who.”
Prescott slid the envelope into his inside coat pocket. “I won’t ask why you want to know, but it might help if I knew where to start looking.”
“Not sure. One looks like intelligence community, a couple may be civilians, probably all working for the Defense Department.”
“Defense Department?” Prescott raised his eyebrows curiously. “Don’t ask me to do anything for a foreign government, Mitch, or I’ll turn you in myself. I’m no traitor.”
“Neither are we,” Christa said firmly. “Anything you do for us is in our country’s best interests. I can assure you of that.”
“I feel better already,” Prescott said dryly.
“Like I said, Mat, we’re doing research for a group that’s got its eyes on winning a classified US government defense contract. They just want a head start over the competition.”
“Which defense contract?”
“It’s called the Siren Project. That’s the second part of the job. We’d like you to dig up whatever you can on it.”
“Never heard of it. What is it?”
“An advanced technology research project,” Christa said.
“I need more to go on than just a name.”
Christa shook her head slowly. “That’s it.”
“You can trust me, I guard the lives of Presidents.”
“It’s not a question of trust. I have my orders,” she replied with finality.
“I guess I can assume this Siren thing is classified, so if I get caught snooping around, things could get ugly. Right?”
“Don’t get caught,” Mitch said.
Prescott considered the proposal. “Okay, I’ll bite. Twenty five for the photo ID, ten for looking into Siren, plus another twenty five if I find anything.”
“Sixty thousand!” Christa whispered, then turned to Mitch, “You said–”
Mitch cut her off with a wave of his hand. “Agreed. You got somewhere you want us to send the money to?”
Prescott passed a card listing his bank details to Mitch. “When I see thirty five thousand hit that account, I’ll do the photos and start checking on Siren. I’ll call you when I’m ready. Don’t call me.”
“The money will be there in a few hours,” Mitch assured him.
Satisfied, Prescott finished his coffee. “So tell me Mitch, if I’m making sixty on this deal, how much is in it for you?” Prescott asked enviously. “For career planning purposes, you understand.”
Mitch winked at his old friend, and said nothing.
* * * *
Mitch and Christa parked their hire car a short distance from the dour office block that provided administrative support to a range of Senate activities. It was a nondescript rectangular building, built more than half a century earlier, and only recently renovated. Off in the distance, they could see the dome of the congress building poking above the skyline, and unseen, they heard a helicopter flying low over the city, possibly carrying some elected official about his business.
They were given visitor’s passes at the entrance, and proceeded up several flights to an office, where they were kept waiting forty minutes past their appointment time. Mouse had arranged for the meeting with the man Gunter’s contacts had identified as someone who was known for his open self interest. When the receptionist finally let them into the office, Lawrence Rayborne rose and crossed the office to meet them. He was a solid individual, tending to fat, although in his younger days, he’d played college ball and had even fielded a few offers from the minor leagues. After finishing law school, he'd drifted through several law firms until he landed a Washington based job in the Department of Agriculture. From there he found his way into a much more opportune role supporting the Senate Appropriations Committee. He quickly learned how to torpedo projects for obscure legal reasons, making him someone the beneficiaries of such projects were keen to ingratiate themselves with.
He settled back into his deeply padded leather chair and looked curiously at them. “So, you’re from Marsin Reath Electric?”
“That’s right,” Mitch replied.
“Who at Marsin gave you my name?” He asked cautiously.
Mitch had memorized the details Gunter had given him the night before over the telephone. “Harrison Whitmore.”
; “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.”
The Siren Project Page 5