She decided to stay friendly. For the moment. “Call it a hunch, but I really don’t think Hiram is involved in the way my superiors seem to think he is.”
She looked down at her notes, then back up at Landers. “I know you and Hiram are acquaintances.” Pregnant pause. Let it marinate. “So I thought maybe you could point me in the right direction. Maybe help me persuade my bosses to focus on someone else.”
Sam watched the small, pudgy man closely. He made a show of looking up at the ceiling, pretending to search his memory for details. “Hiram . . . do I know a Hiram? It’s a name I would remember, I’m sure . . . ah, yes, I think we overlapped briefly at the Pentagon years back. He was in drones maybe? I’m not sure exactly. But what did you want to know?”
Utter bullshit, but Sam decided to play along for a while. “Maybe you didn’t know him as well as I thought you did. I’m sorry about that. How about Evan Maier?”
She saw deep worry on Landers’s face. It lasted a fraction of a second. Then a smile found its way to his mouth, but it stopped well short of reaching his eyes. Got you on the run, little fella, Sam thought.
“I haven’t heard from old Evan in years, but I would be extremely surprised if he was involved in anything untoward.”
“That’s interesting,” she said. “I must have my facts mixed up.” She gave him a pointed look, and allowed the silence to stretch an uncomfortably long time.
“Well, these things can be difficult to figure out, I’m sure,” Landers offered, hoping the conversation was ending.
She smiled. “Sometimes. But other times, it’s pretty easy to figure things out.” Another pointed look.
He squirmed.
Sam’s gaze turned hard. “I want to know why you’re screwing with me, Charlie.”
He sat back in the upholstered chair, a hurt expression on his face, soon replaced by anger. “Listen, I don’t need you coming in here and talking to me like that—”
“Cut the bullshit, Charlie. You talked to Hiram last week. Right after you talked to Evan Maier, and right before you talked to Avery Martinson. All of which happened before you talked to Frank Higgs. The same Senator Frank Higgs who is now missing and presumed dead.”
She let the silence hang, her eyes locked onto his.
He couldn’t hold her gaze. The antique clock on his desk counted the seconds while he stared down at his hands.
“You’re not cleared for that information,” he finally replied in a low voice.
“Strike three. I’ve had your clearances checked in the system. You’re not cleared for anything that I’m not. And I’m cleared for a whole lot of shit that you’re not.” Once again, she used silence as a weapon, watching his uneasiness grow.
Then she applied more pressure. “You’re Brock’s boss and I consider you to be a friend, so I’ll make the small presumption of offering some unsolicited advice,” Sam said. “Stop. Lying. To me.”
She watched him closely. She saw fear. She noticed a bead of sweat accumulating on Landers’s upper lip.
“You report to Lieutenant General Barton,” she said. “I’ve got his number written right here.” She waved her yellow legal pad.
Landers frowned.
“I’ll open an official investigation,” Sam said. “Barton will have no choice but to escort you down to my office. Then we’ll play this little game all over again, but you’ll be under oath and on camera.”
Landers opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it. Another long silence ensued, in which Landers stared at his hands while Sam relentlessly watched his face.
After a long while, he spoke. His voice sounded small and tired. “I want to help you, Sam. Please believe me when I tell you that I’m . . . I’m just not in a position to do so.”
“Final answer? Think carefully. This is a much more important decision than you might suspect.”
“Listen, Sam. I’m sure you know that Brock and I haven’t had the smoothest working relationship, and I know there’s been . . . tension. But please, don’t do this.”
“Don’t do what, Charlie? I just want to know about your friends Hiram and Evan. What could possibly be the harm in that?”
Landers hesitated, uncertainty on his face.
Then he shook his head, his resolve returning. He appeared to have made a decision. “No. I can’t help you. I’m sorry.”
He stood up abruptly and walked behind his desk. He sat down in his desk chair, picked up a stack of papers, and began reading them. “Janice will see you out. Please, have a good evening, Sam, and I hope Brock’s leg gets better soon.”
Sam didn’t move from her seat on the couch in front of Landers’s desk. “Last chance, Charlie. Then hardball.”
He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, shaking his head, premature age showing on his face. “I’m sorry, Sam.”
“OK, Charlie. Later, when there’s a mushroom cloud over your world, I want you to remember this moment.”
She called up an image on her phone. Dan Gable had sent it to her just minutes earlier.
The picture was of a bank account statement from Credit Suisse’s Zurich branch. There wasn’t a name anywhere on the statement, but that wasn’t unusual for Swiss bank accounts.
Sam handed her phone to Landers. “You think you’re the first guy to hide dirty money in Switzerland, Charlie? So cliché. No names, of course, but it took us about twelve seconds to trace the account to you. It’s a brave new world, and Swiss accounts aren’t what they used to be.”
She watched Landers’s face turn ghost white.
“We also noticed the large deposit that shows up on the fourth of every month,” she said. “Winthrop Gorman Corporation’s monthly bribe, delivered through a number of shill corporations. It probably felt very cloak-and-dagger to you, but you really did an amateur job setting all of this up. You were clearly out of your depth.”
Landers looked at the picture of his Swiss bank account. His breathing became rapid and shallow. Sam had seen it more times than she could count: powerful men brought down by even more powerful secrets. It was so common as to be banal.
But it was always useful. Sam saw his upper lip quiver, and she smiled inwardly. Bastard.
“Your friends at the Council on Foreign Relations will have a hard time covering this one up, General. As you know, taking bribes from a contractor is punishable by jail time under the Uniform Code of Military Justice.”
His breathing grew rapid and shallow.
“I think your case is especially newsworthy,” Sam said. “You’re in charge of the whole damn ASAT program, and you’re taking bribes. The US Attorney is going to saw your nuts off with a butter knife. Twenty-five years, minimum. And those will be rough years for a guy your size. Unless you enjoy being the bitch.”
Sam let the silence linger. Landers’s eyes darted about. Sam knew he was contemplating the implications: the public humiliation, the hard conversations with his wife and college-aged children, the legal costs, the loss of income and status. And the third star, which he coveted but would never get.
Sam broke the silence. “Of course, things don’t have to get that ugly for you. I can influence how this goes down. But you’ll have to be very, very cooperative.”
His hands shook and his face was still white as a sheet. “Do you realize that you’re placing my life in danger?” he finally asked.
“Oh no, Charlie. I didn’t make your mess. That was all you. But it sounds like you have a lot to tell me. I’m all ears.”
Sam squealed her Porsche’s tires as she left the parking garage beneath the DoD Mobile Anti-Satellite Targeting System program office, blue police light again perched atop her car roof.
Major General Charlie Landers, it turned out, knew quite a bit about the two fellows his phone records had in common with Avery Martinson, the grizzled CIA case officer with the hooker habit, and Frank Higgs, the equally grizzled US senator with a history of clandestine involvement.
Sam smiled. She had bet that a proud little
man like Landers would choose to risk his life rather than humble himself enough to admit serious wrongdoing. Her hunch was correct. She got what she needed from him.
She had recorded their conversation, despite Landers’s protests, and had taken copious notes on her yellow legal pad. He was a wealth of information. Once she destroyed the dam of his resistance, the wee general’s reservoir of unsavory knowledge poured out, and it was all she could do to keep up. She had e-mailed the audio file to her deputy for further analysis and follow-up.
Hiram Angstler and Evan Maier were indeed important leads, but they would have to wait. Landers had given her something much, much more important.
And much more fleeting.
She drove like a woman possessed, far faster than was sensible even with her police light flashing and horn blaring. She had a long way to go, and no time to spare.
The DC gridlock was the last thing she needed. It was nearly 7:00 p.m., long past rush hour in most cities, but it wasn’t unusual for traffic to remain snarled in DC until well into the night.
She drove on the shoulder of the I-395 on-ramp, kicking up loose gravel as she accelerated around the curve and onto the highway, gritting her teeth as she ripped past crawling cars.
She resolved to make it in time. Or die trying.
81
Fort Worth, TX. Monday, 4:49 p.m. ET.
Kit Farrel, Vice President of Business Development at Langston Marlin, met Stalwart at the front door of the LM plant in Fort Worth, Texas. “How was the flight, Mike?”
Farrel’s genuine smile and easygoing style made him perfect for high-stakes interactions. And the stakes didn’t get much higher. Mike Charles, co-lead of the government side of the Mobile Anti-Satellite Targeting System program, had been dispatched by none other than the Vice President of the United States to take a closer look at the targeting subsystem.
Farrel’s Washington team had sent advanced warning. Vice President Arquist was concerned LM might have acquired the breakthrough technology via nefarious means, potentially exposing the program to legal jeopardy. Farrel’s job was to convince Mike Charles otherwise.
“The flight was tolerable, as always, but it’s kind of you to ask,” Stalwart answered. “Good to see you again, and I’m sorry for the drama Charlie caused earlier in the day.”
Stalwart returned Farrel’s firm handshake. The two turned together to enter the vast, mile-long manufacturing facility situated on the Texas plain.
“It’s no problem at all. He’s a zealous advocate and a tough boss, and he keeps us honest.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Stalwart said with a laugh. “Anyway, Charlie’s great for entertainment, as long as you’re not on the receiving end. I thought I’d zip out here to take a look for myself, given how heated things became this morning after our little chat with the vice president.”
Farrel nodded. “Thanks, we really do appreciate it. Sometimes you just can’t clear things up over the phone.”
“Listen, Kit, I’m really sorry to hear about John Averett’s death. What a horrible tragedy. Do they have any leads?” The story of the CEO’s assassination had just broken in the news, and Stalwart’s question was motivated by more than just curiosity.
“Thanks, Mike. It’s kind of you. I didn’t know John well, but what a mess. I think they found a backpack with a rifle and some other gear, but no arrests yet.”
“I hope they find the bastards,” Stalwart lied. He added, “I’m very sorry for the loss.” That part was true.
“Yeah, it was horrific. Guys like him are always at risk, but you never expect anything to happen so close to home. But we’re open for business, as they say, and glad you could make it out here today.”
They wound their way through the enormous facility. Stalwart had been to this compound dozens of times, and had his own security badge. It gave him unescorted access to any part of the facility he wished to see. But he always appreciated having an escort.
The eastern end of the gigantic factory, which had manufactured airplanes and other government-procured items since the Second World War, was three stories tall.
Each level was several acres large, full of nothing but modular office furniture and meeting rooms. Thousands of engineers, lawyers, contract specialists, and administrators toiled away in the windowless cubicle farm.
The main hallway was nearly a quarter mile long, spanning the short axis of the building. Halfway down its length, the hallway intersected another broad passageway that led to the manufacturing floor.
Stalwart and Farrel turned left, walking quickly toward the state-of-the-art fabrication and assembly facility. The cavernous structure contained the early production prototypes of the Mobile Anti-Satellite Targeting System, each in various stages of completion along the gigantic assembly line.
“The targeting problem ended up being fairly simple,” Farrel said. “The algorithm is efficient and blazing fast, and we built a special microchip to run it even faster. The output adjusts the beam aperture several hundred thousand times per second to account for the optical effects of thermal blooming and atmospheric noise.”
Stalwart smiled. “I’d never guess you were a sales guy, Kit. You have one hell of a solid grasp on that stuff. You sound like the head of engineering.”
“Thanks. I had to have some special tutoring from the whiz kids before it really started to sink in. I was a pig staring at a wristwatch.”
Farrel held another door open. “I understand that you want to see the prototype on the test setup,” he said, “and you’re looking to bring back the drawings. Is that right?”
“That would be great, Kit. I’d appreciate it. The vice president is a bit nervous about legal exposure, which has SecDef and the SecAF feeling stressed. You know how that stuff goes.”
Farrel nodded. “Sure do.”
They reached glass door to the factory floor. “We both need to badge in,” Farrel said. “We’re locked down pretty tight these days.”
Stalwart immediately understood the reasoning behind the added security measures. LM was now in possession of a tool that could single-handedly cripple much of the global economy.
In fact, that was precisely how Stalwart planned to use the technology he was about to inspect.
He felt equal parts nervous and giddy, but kept his demeanor placid for Farrel’s benefit.
Farrel swiped his badge across the electronic reader, then entered his eight-digit PIN. The door slid open, Farrel walked through, and the door closed immediately behind him.
Stalwart repeated the procedure with his own badge and PIN. His personal number was 07-15-1971—the day Richard Nixon cut all ties between the US Dollar and the gold standard, establishing the Greenback as the world’s most widely distributed fiat currency. The PIN served to remind Stalwart of his deeper purpose, and it felt especially significant on this particular evening.
The door acquiesced and Stalwart followed Farrel onto the vast factory floor.
“I’ve kept a couple of guys after hours to run the demonstration,” Farrel said. “If you don’t mind, we’ll do that first.”
Farrel motioned toward one of the dozen golf carts parked at the entrance of the factory floor. Someone had actually calculated the cost of the man-hours spent walking between stations in the huge factory, and determined that buying a gaggle of golf carts would save the company hundreds of thousands of dollars every year.
Stalwart hopped in the passenger seat, and they zipped off to the far end of the factory, past wheeled vehicles with futuristic-looking beam-focusing equipment in various stages of completion. “I’ve been here a hundred times, but I’m still impressed by the size of this operation,” Stalwart said.
“Me too. I think you’ll be equally impressed with the demonstration you’re about to see.”
Farrel pulled the cart to a stop at the foot of a large octagonal structure that had been constructed right on the factory floor. It contained an elevator, which carried the two executives four stories up to a pla
tform.
Stalwart stepped out of the elevator and saw a large opening in the factory ceiling, shaped much like an observatory. At the center of the aperture sat a parabolic beam focuser, just like the ones he had seen on the factory floor moments before.
“We’re going to focus on a distant star,” Farrel began. “We’ll make sure there’s nothing in the way that might be damaged by the high-powered laser, and then we’ll shoot the beam at maximum power in order to show you the tracking stability.
“As you know, before the recent breakthrough, the heat generated by the laser’s path through the atmosphere threw our tracking algorithm completely off. Tonight, you’re going to see a much different result. Ready, Keith?”
A technician nodded, motioning the party inside a protective shelter adjacent to the beam generator. The laser was so powerful that if a bird suddenly flew through the beam, there would be enough reflected energy to blind a person for life. And the bird would never be the same, either.
Moments later, the technician threw a switch. Stalwart heard a low hum and watched the targeting display. It was rock-steady.
Stalwart let out a low whistle. “Nice.”
“We’ve got the error down to a few billionths of a degree,” the technician said proudly.
“Beautiful,” Stalwart replied.
He turned to Farrel. “Thanks so much for putting this together on such short notice. Looks like you guys are on track. If you’ll just hand me the chip architecture file to show Vice President Arquist that it’s original LM work, I’ll get out of your hair.”
“Well, about that . . .” Farrel began. “Maybe we should find someplace quiet to chat.”
Stalwart chuckled inside, but kept a straight face. “Sure, let’s do that.”
Whether or not Langston Marlin stole the technology it was now using in its anti-satellite program didn’t concern Stalwart in the least. He personally didn’t care one way or the other. He had gotten what he needed out of this trip, which was confirmation that the targeting devices LM was now building could handle the thermal bloom problem.
The Essential Sam Jameson / Peter Kittredge Box Set: SEVEN bestsellers from international sensation Lars Emmerich Page 136