“Nobody knows of any.”
“What else?”
“The machine shop ground three fittings for him to custom specifications. All high-grade stainless steel. Two of them are on-off pressure valves with special handles. The third is a T coupling which brings together two hoses into a common outlet.”
“What’s special about the valve handles?”
“The handles have a series of perforations, presumably so the valves can be turned on and off by some sort of machine.”
“Any information about what kind of machine would be used to turn the valves on and off?”
Lewis shook his head. “But they said the handles are spring-loaded. A moderate pressure will snap them from full shut to the full open position.”
“Now that’s really interesting,” Graves said. “You mean there are no intermediate positions for the valves?”
“Yes. It’s either full shut or full open.”
The elevator came. Graves pressed the button for the sixth floor.
“When did Wright order these custom fittings?”
“Last week. Rush order.”
“Really interesting,” Graves said. “What about the plastics store?”
Lewis scratched his head. “Three weeks ago Wright ordered two pressure-molded plastic tanks from them. Long tanks roughly a foot in diameter and eight feet long. Specified as triple-laminate things able to withstand pressures up to five hundred pounds per square inch. The shop was surprised to get the order.”
“Why?”
“Well, the guy said nobody orders tanks like that in plastic. It’s too dangerous. All high-pressure tanks are metal and seamless. There’s no advantage to plastic, even in weight. Plastic tanks, if they’re triple-thickness, are heavier than metal.”
“Wright wouldn’t order something that had no advantage.”
“Well,” Lewis said, “the guy thought Wright was a pretty strange customer. Not only did he want these plastic tanks, but he wanted them made out of allacron.”
“Which is?”
“A very tough resilient plastic, but highly combustible. It burns like a bastard, so it isn’t used much.”
“Have the tanks been finished?”
“They were delivered a week ago to a private airfield hangar in El Cajon, about twelve miles from here.”
“You have the address?”
“Yeah. I tried to call; no telephone there.”
Graves frowned. He was more convinced than ever that Wright was playing with him, leading him on a chase, daring him to put the puzzle together.
Two high-pressure tanks of combustible plastic.
Special steel fittings, including a T nozzle.
Two steel hoses, flexible.
All that made a kind of sense. You had two tanks, and two hoses that joined in a T nozzle, so that the contents of the two tanks—liquid or gas, presumably—would come together at the T nozzle and then be expelled as a mixture.
That was easy to visualize.
But what was the point? And what was the point of the skin-diving tanks, and the rubber strips, and the Geiger counter?
The elevator stopped at the sixth floor. They both got out and walked to Drew’s room.
“Where is Wright now?”
“I just checked with 702. He’s in that apartment on Alameda.”
“The one he rented last week?”
“Right.”
The newly rented apartment was also a puzzle. Wright had apparently leased it on the spur of the moment. It seemed to coincide with nothing, except with the fact that one girl had been seen leaving his old apartment near the Cortez Hotel three mornings in a row. This was unusual enough to suggest that Wright was going to set her up as his mistress.
“702 talked to the doorman. Wright told the doorman they’d be moving furniture into the apartment later in the day.”
“Hmmm.” That seemed totally unreasonable to Graves. Wright wouldn’t spend time supervising domestic arrangements for a girl. It was beneath him.
Stopping in the hallway, Lewis said, “Does all this make sense to you?”
“No,” Graves said. “Not yet. But I expect to get some help.”
Without knocking he opened the door and entered Drew’s room.
Timothy Drew sat in an overstuffed chair and said, “I want to see my lawyer.” His voice was calm. The fact of his arrest, and the presence of two federal marshals standing by the doors with their hands resting on the butts of their revolvers, did not seem to disturb him at all.
Graves’s eyes swept the living room. It was an expensive hotel suite, furnished in a heavily elegant style. Altogether, not bad for a man one year out of the Army. He sat down in a chair opposite Drew.
“I want to see my lawyer,” Drew repeated. His eyes flicked once to Graves, then went back to the cops, as if he had decided Graves was unimportant.
“You’ll have that opportunity,” Graves said.
Drew’s eyes snapped back, fixed on him.
“In due time,” Graves added.
“I want to do it now.”
“We’re in a hurry,” Graves said. His voice was not hurried at all. “We’d prefer to have a statement from you now.”
“I have nothing to say.”
Graves shrugged, and lit a cigarette. He never took his eyes off Drew. This was going to be a kind of chess game, he knew, and it was a game he could win if he kept his temper.
“I want to see my lawyer,” Drew repeated.
Graves did not reply. He just stared. That was the simplest form of pressure, and he wanted to see if it would work.
“Listen,” Drew said, “who are you guys, anyway? You haven’t got the right to push me around. You haven’t got a warrant—”
“Did you show him the warrant?” Graves said.
“Yeah, we showed him the warrant,” one of the marshals said.
“Show him again.”
The marshal snapped open the warrant in front of Drew, then took it away.
“Signed by a federal district court judge at nine thirty this morning,” Graves said. “All in order, all perfectly legal. You’re arrested on a charge of conspiracy to steal classified information. It carries a mandatory twenty-year prison sentence if you’re convicted. Parole is not granted for such charges. Do you know what that means?”
“I want to see my lawyer.”
“I’m trying to help you,” Graves said quietly. “Keep your mouth shut and listen: You were observed tampering with the computer terminals at Southern California Underwriters. You tapped into classified data banks at known times which coincide with your access to the terminals in question. We have traced back the lines. Furthermore, you utilized certain codes known to you but outdated. This gives you away. It’s quite straightforward. You’ll get out of prison when you’re about fifty.”
Graves stood up. “Now think carefully, Mr. Drew. Is it worth it?”
Drew’s face went blank, neutral, composed. “I want to see my lawyer.”
Graves sighed and walked around the living room, looking idly at details. He glanced into the bedroom and saw a packed suitcase next to the bed. He looked back at Drew. “Planning a trip?”
“I want to see my lawyer.”
Graves walked into the bedroom and opened the suitcase. The bottom half was filled with lightweight clothing, bathing trunks, sports clothes.
The top was packed with money, neat stacks of twenty-dollar bills held tight in paper sleeves. Fresh from the bank. He counted the stacks: it came to roughly twenty thousand dollars.
In a corner of the bedroom draped over a chair was a sports coat. He found a ticket for the noon plane to Acapulco in the pocket. A first-class ticket, one-way.
He returned to the living room. Drew watched him, wary now.
“Planning a trip, Mr. Drew?”
“I want to see my lawyer.”
“That’s a lot of money in there, Mr. Drew.”
“I have nothing to say.”
“From your ticket, it looks like you were p
lanning to stay down there. Not come back.”
Drew shook his head. He did not speak. He was sweating, but still in control; he showed no sign of cracking.
“Can you account for all that money?”
“No comment. I want to see—”
“All right,” Graves said. He sighed and turned to the marshals. “Okay, lock him up.”
The marshals grabbed Drew roughly, each taking an arm. For the first time Drew became excited: “What’s going on?”
Graves found the reaction interesting. Was Drew afraid of jail? Was he homosexual? Did he need drugs? Graves decided to play on the jail fear. “We don’t have many options, Mr. Drew. I know it’s not pleasant, but we’ve got to put you in jail. You know, there’s a lot of paperwork, and sometimes people get lost. Inadvertently deprived of their rights. I mean, people have spent a day or two in jail, and their papers get mixed up. So they don’t get any food, or water, or anything. But you see, nobody knows you’re there. For a while.”
“Where are you taking me?” Drew’s voice was strained now, very tense.
“Downtown. We’ll be talking to you again in a day or so, when you’re more … relaxed.”
“Downtown San Diego?”
“Yes,” Graves said. And he suddenly realized that Drew wasn’t afraid of jail at all. He didn’t want to stay in the city. That was what he was afraid of.
“You can’t do that!”
“Just watch it happen,” Graves said, lighting a cigarette.
“I’ve got to leave,” Drew said. He was now openly agitated. “I have to leave. I have to leave.”
“Why?”
“It’s my sister. She’s sick, in Mexico. That’s why I have the money, I need it—”
“You don’t have a sister,” Graves said. “You have one brother two years older than you, who sells insurance in Portland, Oregon. Your father is still alive and lives in Michigan. Your mother died two years ago of a heart attack.”
Drew’s body sagged.
“Put him down,” Graves said to the marshals. They dropped him back into the chair. “Now listen to me,” Graves said. “You aren’t going anywhere without giving us some help.”
Drew stared at him. “I want a cigarette.”
Graves gave him one.
“What time is it now?” Drew asked dully.
“Ten thirty.” Graves lit the cigarette for him and watched as Drew sat back and inhaled.
“Listen,” Drew said, “I have to catch that plane at noon.”
“Why is that?” Graves said.
“I don’t know,” Drew said. “I swear to God I don’t know.”
“What do you know?”
“I know I have to get out of San Diego today, because … something is going to happen.”
“How do you know this?”
“John told me.”
“John Wright?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He said that the binary would go off today. In San Diego.”
“And what is the binary?”
“I don’t know.” He sucked on the cigarette.
“Mr. Drew, you’re going to have to do better—”
“I swear to you, I don’t know.”
Graves paused. He let Drew sweat, and let him smoke. Finally he said, “How is the binary related to the information you tapped from the data banks?”
“I can’t be sure. The information was in two areas. One was easy to get, the other was hard. First, John wanted supply routings. I spent a couple of days learning how to plug into the subroutines to release the information. I kept getting ‘no authorization’ printouts, but finally I managed to plug in.”
“And extract what?”
“Supply routings for different things.”
“Things?”
“Well, John gave me the codes for what he wanted. Don’t ask me where he got those codes. One of the codes was for a thing called ‘Binary 75 slash 76.’ I got a supply routing for that.”
“And you have no idea what the code represents?”
“None. Except that it’s obviously Defense Department material, transported by rail.”
“How do you know that?”
“From the routings themselves. You can’t be sure what’s being transported, but you can tell the method—air, rail, other surface vehicle, truck convoy. You can tell the method.”
“What else can you tell?”
“You can tell the C and C ratings.”
“What’s that?”
“Command and Control provides a rating for all material transportation. The ratings are in grades: grades one through seven. One is pretty safe, or pretty inexpensive. Like clothing, or spare auto parts—that sort of thing. Seven is very expensive or very dangerous.”
“What was Binary 75 slash 76?”
“It was a grade seven.”
“What did you think Binary 75 slash 76 represented?”
Drew puffed on his cigarette. He did not answer for a long time. Finally he said, “I thought it was radioactive materials.”
“Meaning?”
“I don’t know. Components for a bomb, maybe. I don’t know.”
Graves almost immediately rejected that explanation, although it fitted with the scintillation counter.
“What else could it be?”
“You asked me what I thought it was. I told you.”
“You think Wright planned to make an atomic bomb?”
“I think he planned to steal the components. Maybe he already has.”
“And do what with them?”
“I don’t know. But it’s going to happen today.”
Graves sat back. Drew put out his cigarette. Graves offered him another.
“What does a code like ‘binary’ mean?”
“It could be just a random code,” Drew said. “But they usually have some specific meaning. That’s why I thought it was atomic components.”
“Binary …”
“Meaning a twin system,” Drew said. “Something with two active parts, two units. Nuclear bombs are like that. You have two sections of uranium, neither of which will explode by itself. But you bring them together, and you reach critical mass, start a chain reaction.” He snapped his fingers. “Bingo.”
By now Graves was convinced that Drew believed this explanation. Graves did not. Whatever Wright planned, it had nothing to do with atomic bombs. That didn’t fit with the tanks and hoses and nozzles, all of which pointed to some gas or liquid apparatus.
“He’s insane,” Drew said suddenly. “That’s the trouble. He’s crazy. He’s convinced that everybody is out to get him, and he’s convinced that the government is being turned over to the wrong elements, and he’s convinced that only he can set things right.”
“You mentioned that there was something else you had to tap from the data banks. What was it?”
“That was strange,” Drew said. “I’d already tapped the Defense routings. My job was over. Then John asked me to tap into the State data banks.”
“State?”
“State Department. I said I couldn’t. He told me to try, and gave me some more codes. I don’t know where he got those either, but they worked.”
“What was the information he wanted?”
“File summary on one person,” Drew said. “A man who worked in State Department Intelligence named Graves.”
“I see,” Graves said. “Did you obtain the information?”
“Eventually.”
“And you gave it to Wright?”
“Yes. He wasn’t interested in it, I don’t think, except for one part. The psychological test scores.”
“Do you remember anything else?”
“No. Only that John was very interested in the psychological tests.” He puffed on the cigarette. “I remember he said when he saw it, ‘Well, this is the final cog in the machine,’ and laughed.”
“What did he mean by that?”
“Damned if I know,” Drew said.
&nbs
p; San Diego: 11 a.m. PDT
Hour 6
AS THEY LEFT DREW’S ROOM, Lewis said, “By the way, they’re still holding the girl.”
“The girl?” Graves was distracted, thinking about what Drew had said.
“The girl we picked up this morning.”
“Oh yes. Where is she?”
“They’ve got her downstairs. In the grand ballroom.”
Graves nodded and checked his watch. They’d held the girl for several hours already. “I’d better see her now,” he said. “What’s her name?”
Lewis consulted his notes. “Cynthia Lembeck.”
“How does she seem?”
Lewis shrugged. “Nervous.”
Anyone would be nervous, Graves thought, who had to spend much time in the hotel’s grand ballroom. It was a cavernous space with ornate walls and ceiling, but for some reason all the tables and chairs had been removed. The ballroom was empty except for a girl sitting in a fold-up chair near one wall, and a marshal standing nearby.
Graves went over to her.
Seen close, she was darkly tanned, conventionally pretty, and older than he had expected—in her late twenties or early thirties.
“Miss Lembeck?”
“Oh,” she said in surprise. “It’s you.”
That stopped him. Stopped him cold. “You recognize me?”
“Well, just your face. I’ve seen your picture.”
“Where?”
“John’s apartment.”
“I see.”
“Are you a friend of his?”
“Not exactly,” Graves said. “I work for the government.”
“Something to do with the Convention?”
“Not exactly.” He switched into a straightforward interrogation mode. “How long have you known Mr. Wright, Miss Lembeck?”
“About a month.”
“How did you meet him?”
“Through friends.” She glanced from Graves to the marshal. “Have I done something wrong?”
“No, no. We just want to ask you some questions. What can you tell us about Mr. Wright?”
“He’s very nice,” she said. “We’re engaged.”
“Oh?” That was a surprise.
“Yes. He bought me an apartment, just last week.”
“I see.”
“It’s very nice. At least, it will be.”
The girl was not very bright, but she had a sweet sexiness that was unmistakable. Still, he couldn’t imagine Wright marrying her. In the past he had married well-known women, celebrities.
Binary: A Novel Page 6