"Where do you want this?" he asked, holding the box out in front of him.
"Anywhere for now," she replied with a casual wave of the hand. "We'll decide later. I figure to transcribe on the computer, using the TV as a monitor."
"I don't think it's wise for us to stay here," he said.
She stared at him quizzically. "Why? Did something else happen last night?"
"No." He put the computer on the floor next to the television. "But we're hardly living here in secret anymore."
"You don't know who that was last night," she said. "It could have been the killers, or your people, or the institute, or two lovers looking for a quiet street, or drug dealers making a buy, or…"
"All right," he interrupted, putting up a hand. "You sure you'll fee! safe here while I'm at the institute?"
"I'll be fine," she assured him, then stared down at the tags on her dress. "Could you pull these off? That's the trouble with setting up housekeeping... we don't have scissors yet."
She moved up right beside him, and he bent to the first tag. It was on the side panel of the low-cut dress, along her rib cage. With a hand on her side he jerked the tag off with his other hand, the contact with her body electric.
She slapped his hand hard and glared at him. "Not after last night, Dr. Sparks," she nearly hissed, then moved away from him.
He straightened abruptly, but before he could say anything, she turned to the package-laden chair and pulled out a small white paper bag.
"I'll bet you haven't eaten anything today," she said.
"Well... no," he admitted, off guard.
She held the bag out to him. "Here. Got one of those breakfast things at a fast-food restaurant. It'll make that coffee a little tamer if you eat something with it."
He took the bag and sat on the sofa. "Thanks." He was totally confused, unable to figure out what was going on in this woman's mind. She was the most frustrating person he'd ever known, jumping from one feeling to the next like a bee flitting from flower to flower, always changing, always keeping him off balance.
He opened the bag, removing the Styrofoam package that held the English muffin and poached egg. She'd meant well with the breakfast. At least he thought she meant well.
"Where's Jerry's notebook?" she asked.
He leaned over the coffee table and shuffled the papers until he found it.
"You going to start transcribing today?" he asked as he handed it to her.
She shook her head. "I'm going to spend the rest of today committing this to memory so I can transcribe tomorrow from my own head. It'll be easier. I don't know why you didn't give this to me last night. I could have been studying it at the motel."
"Whoever has this book is in danger. I didn't want you to have the responsibility unless I was nearby."
They shared a look, both of them knowing he was lying. The simple fact of the matter was that Bolan wasn't about to let the notebook out of his sight, in case something happened to it.
"You know," she said, "with all this information inside my head, I'm in danger, too."
"You're in danger anyway," he replied, taking a bite of the egg sandwich. "If you can transcribe this information fast enough, though, maybe it will be over soon."
"One way or the other," she said, frowning, and wandered out of the room with the book.
He watched the empty doorway for a moment, feeling at a loss because she always was able to so easily tie him up in knots.
Taking a breath, he slid painfully back to the floor and pulled the coffee table up close. He picked up the paper he'd found in Butler's lab table and looked at it again. From the grave, Jerry Butler was speaking to him through a series of predictable symbols. He stared at the writing, then sorted through the various unsuccessful attempts he had made at cracking the code, all using variations of geometric designs in which to fit letters in some sort of coherent, recurring style.
Bolan was sure of the type of code, and it was simply a matter of rote work, running through the possibilities until he hit on the right one.
As he idly drew on the paper, Bolan tried to understand the mind of the man who had made the code. Intelligent and motivated, Jerry Butler had perceived trouble, undoubtedly of a military nature, while working at the institute. He then began trying to ferret out the trouble, meanwhile hiding his research and his detective work from what he felt were prying eyes. Apparently discovering something, Butler left the institute in a hurry, not even stopping to take his discoveries with him. Or perhaps he left copies behind intentionally, hoping someone like Bolan would come looking. One thing that made sense was the thought that Butler had already lost his discovery or he would never have left the notebook behind. Given the chance, he was sure the scientist would have destroyed the notebook rather than let it fall into what he considered to be the wrong hands. That fact was important when tied to the space shuttle. Something had apparently been shipped on the Challenger that was tied to Butler's research — and both Butler and the shuttle were destroyed to protect that secret. But what?
Bolan drew two parallel lines on the paper, then connected them with a line drawn at right angles to the parallel. He drew another line, parallel to the connecting line. What he was left with was a design of nine spaces that looked like a ticktacktoe board. That could handle nine of twenty-six letters of the alphabet. If he put dots within the framework, he could get nine more letters.
He picked up the scratch paper and studied it for a moment, the entire code falling into place. Then he drew variations on his piece of paper.
He worked furiously then, noting the symbols and translating them on the key he had made. Within two minutes he had come up with three separate groups of words as spelled out in the coded message:
twisted lizard
waterfront legend sea specs
seasonal gift of god
He read the words, read them again as he got back up on the couch. No wonder Butler had used such an easy code to hide his findings — it had simply been an access code to another code, a far more intricate and difficult one. And Bolan had absolutely no idea of how to crack this one.
And so the mystery deepened, leaving Bolan right back where he had started, which was exactly nowhere.
* * *
The rain matched Brognola's mood. He sat parked in front of the Georgetown condo watching a gray sky that came almost all the way down to the wet gray pavement. The condos were Victorian in style, large and ostentatious; red brick and oversize eaves were reflected in the puddles that slicked the roads and sidewalks of the fashionable neighborhood that Marie Price could never afford on a government salary.
Brognola chewed nervously on his cigar and checked his watch again, just as he'd been doing every minute for the past half hour.
It was nearly eleven in the morning. Greg should have been there an hour ago.
The house had been quiet since he'd shown up, as quiet as a dormant volcano. He was angry at the woman he'd placed so much trust in, and was angrier still that the result of that trust had so nearly been fatal. Whatever the source of the disease that seemed to be infecting the government, its symptoms went deep, even showing up in the halls of the Justice Department. He felt like a surgeon getting ready to operate on a cancer, hoping all the while that the ultimate prognosis would be favorable.
He heard sounds on the street, checking the rearview to find a gray Mercedes drawing to a stop behind him. Another car, a red Trans Am, pulled up on the other side of the street, right in front of the condo.
He got out of the car; Gunnar Greggson, smiling wide, stepped out of his car dragging a big, black umbrella with him.
The men shook hands. "Sorry I took so long," Greggson said. "You can't imagine what it's like hunting down a judge on a Saturday morning for a search warrant. Care to share my dry space?"
"You're here," Brognola said, waving off the umbrella. "That's all that matters."
The Trans Am opened up, disgorging two men dressed in blue jeans and light rain jackets. The men
looked at the house, then drifted across the street to where Greggson and Brognola waited. Both men were young, and both still looked half-asleep. "That the place?" the blond agent asked, indicating the condo with a nod of his head.
"Yeah."
"Quite a spread on a secretary's pay." Greggson gestured to the men. "These are our agents, Ted Healy and Oscar Largent. Both of them were nice enough to give up part of their day off for us."
"I appreciate it," Brognola said, shaking hands. "This shouldn't take too long."
Oscar Largent started to walk down the street. "I'll take the back door."
"You won't have any backup," Ted Healy called to him. "Don't take any chances."
Largent gave him the thumbs-up gesture and kept walking, disappearing around the corner within a minute.
"We'll give him another minute to get positioned," Healy decided, and looked at his watch.
"Did you get the bombs from my car all right?" Brognola asked.
"Yeah," Greggson said. "They were delivered to my house last night." He laughed. "My wife made me keep them in the garage."
"I don't blame her," Brognola replied, then shook his head. "I hope you know you're sticking your neck right out with me now."
"That's my job, isn't it?" Greggson said, his eyes meeting and holding Brognola's. "Don't congratulate me for doing the right thing."
"That's why I came to you, Greg."
"Let's move in," Healy said. He dug into an inner pocket and pulled out the warrant, plus his identification. "Are you sure she's in there?"
"I can't be sure of anything," Brognola growled. "I drove past her parking space in the back alley, and a car with a Justice Department parking sticker was in her slot."
"Close enough." Healy walked across the street and along the bricked pathway leading to Price's front door, Brognola and Greggson right behind.
They reached the door, a large, heavy-looking piece of maple, and Healy rang the bell without hesitation. There was no answer. He rang again, then turned to stare at Greggson when no one answered.
Greggson nodded. Healy turned to bang on the door with his fist. "Open up!" he called loudly. "Federal agents!"
Still no one answered. "Open up!" Healy called again. "We have a warrant and will facilitate entry on our own!"
When nothing stirred within the house, Greggson looked at Brognola. "It's your show, buddy. What do we do now?"
"We get inside any way we can. Do we have the authorization for that?"
Greggson smiled slowly, his lawyer's face settling into the kind of satisfied expression usually reserved for winning a case. He shrugged. "We have the authorization for anything you want to do. Or we can get it later."
"We'll never get through that door," Healy said.
"Then let's try a window," Brognola suggested. "At worst, we'll replace a little glass."
A large, potted geranium sat on the porch near the door. Healy bent and picked it up, then walked through the house front shrubs to the den window.
"Here we go." He threw the plant against the window. The sounds of shattering glass drew the neighbors to their front doors.
Healy followed the plant through the window, his service revolver drawn and in his hand. Within seconds, he had unlocked and opened the door for Greggson and Brognola.
They walked into the place, Brognola finding himself faced with a life-style he wasn't sure he would be able to afford. They were standing in an entrance foyer, living area to the left, dining to the right, a long staircase in front of him. Healy ran to the back of the house to let his partner in.
"This feels bad," Greggson said. "I'm afraid…"
"You, too?" Brognola cupped his hands to his mouth. "Marie! Dammit, it's Hal. Where are you?" He turned to Greggson. "I'm going upstairs."
When he walked into the master bedroom, his mind was inexplicably struck by the study in contrasts the place presented. The room was all frilly pinks and stuffed animals, the kind of place a teenaged girl might live in. Travel posters filled the walls, and a sheer pink scarf hanging over the nightstand light cast a melancholy haze over the room. There was no place in this room for the image of stark reds and blacks that defined the heap that lay in the center of the bed.
He walked over to the woman, anger dissipating to pity as he gazed at her. Her naked body had been stabbed and slashed repeatedly, mutilated almost beyond recognition — the price of detection high in Project GOG.
Greggson had approached the bed, and Brognola could see that the man could only look at the remains of Marie Price out of the corner of his eye. "They play hardball, your friends," Greggson said, and Brognola could hear the shakiness in the man's voice.
The Fed retrieved a robe and carried it back to the bed. He could hear Largent and Healy moving through the rest of the house. "Still think you don't need to be thanked for doing the right thing?" he asked, as he covered the body with the robe.
"I think we'd better be extremely careful." A moan escaped the man's throat, and he ran from the room, a hand to his mouth. Brognola almost wished that he could throw up. Unfortunately, for him, the pain was far deeper than what could be brought easily out of his stomach.
The two agents entered the room, Largent walking to the body and peering silently under the robe. He dropped it back in place and glanced at Brognola. "There's a dead kid in the next room," he announced, and another emotional blow slapped Brognola.
"I think the house has been rifled," Healy said, "but they tried to make it look like it hadn't been."
"Yeah." Brognola looked around the room. "I think all this was staged for our benefit so the police will investigate it as a rape, murder and robbery. I want you guys to poke around…."
"Should we call the D.C. cops?"
"Later," Brognola said. "You look around first. I want bankbooks, ledgers, photographs, diaries...anything that might be useful. I'll bet that she had a boyfriend with DOD. Find what you can find and do it fast."
As they hurried from the room, Greggson appeared at the doorway, his face as pale as milk. He leaned against the frame, unable to look at the body. "I think I'd better send my wife away for a while."
Brognola nodded. "We're up to our armpits in this. Whoever did this is covering tracks in a massive way, and they won't stop at either of us. Can we get anything useful out of all this?"
"Bank records will help," Greggson said. "At least we'll know where she's getting her money. There may be useful prints...a lot depends on what we're actually looking for."
Brognola grunted and started out of the room, but Greggson grabbed his arm. "What exactly are we looking for? What the hell's going on here?"
Brognola shrugged the man's hand off his arm. "It's too early to say, I…"
"Tell me!" Greggson demanded, his eyes locking with Brognola's.
"I think that someone is getting ready to try to take control of the government."
Chapter Twelve
Bolan ran the electric razor over his face, its whine the sound of hornets as he watched the employment and lifestyle records of Margaret Ackerman scroll leisurely across the CRT screen in tiny green letters. He'd been studying her, just as he'd been studying everyone at the institute, since six that morning, and of all the interesting tidbits that he had picked up on his co-workers, the file on Ackerman was the most interesting.
He shut off the razor and put it back in his desk drawer. There was something about Margaret Ackerman that didn't add up.
On the others, there had been enlightening material. Howard Davis, for example, had been a tortured genius from childhood. At first judged as retarded, he was put into a state institution until a curious social worker discovered quite by accident the status of his mind when he picked up her guitar at age eight and played it beautifully without ever having touched one before. At that point he was thrust, unprepared, into the mainstream. Skipping most of grade school, he was advanced to high school, from which he graduated with honors at age twelve. He had graduated college at fifteen and had somehow managed a
doctorate in marine biology by age seventeen, at which time he went to work at Grolier. No wonder the kid was difficult. He'd never been socialized in any respect.
Robbie Hampton, on the other hand, had followed a predictable and steady route his whole life. Among his honors were included almost every imaginable grade school, high school and college award. He hadn't been just a writer after that, but the author of three bestselling novels in the 1950s. He'd also done diplomatic duty in South Africa during the Kennedy and Johnson administrations. He'd been at the institute for nearly twenty years, far longer than any of its other denizens.
As a young man Ike Silver had joined the Communist party briefly in the 1940s, rejecting it within months. But it wasn't enough to save him during the McCarthy-era witch hunts in the early fifties. He lost an important physics chair at MIT and found himself blacklisted for several, hungry years. Perhaps that experience had something to do with the man's hatred for things human and his longing for the peace of the stars.
As Bolan studied his co-workers, the thing that struck him the most was that they defied easy definition. The surface wasn't enough to see the man. They were complex human beings with priorities that would probably never be known outside of their own minds. It made his job of ferreting out a traitor, if any, that much more difficult.
Ackerman's file, however, would raise the suspicions of anyone looking through it with barely more than a casual eye. Her track record in biochemical research had been less than stellar. She graduated from USC with a B.S. in chemistry in the early sixties and had been 304th in her class. She went from there to a variety of jobs well outside of her field, taking another ten years on and off to acquire her Ph.D. Then she struggled through assistant professorships at various small colleges, finally landing a full professor's job at Bowling Green University in 1978. The record showed her teaching at Bowling Green for two years, at which time she quite suddenly was offered the position of head of the biochemistry department at prestigious Boston College, which she held until she came to Grolier mere weeks after the disappearance of Jerry Butler.
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