The Hercules Text

by Jack McDevitt

  Leslie watched it through the curtains while Harry drove away. Then she considered how she should leave. The house had a rear door, and the back yards in the vicinity were not fenced. She could keep the house between herself and the van, cut through adjoining property, and probably come out on the next street unseen. But the grass was wet, it was early morning, and she was in the middle of a housing development with no transportation.

  On the other hand, why should she allow herself to get caught up in this and behave like a fugitive? She had, after all, done nothing wrong. But the van waited, and she was reasonably certain that whoever had struck the match was still inside.

  Leslie picked up the phone and called a cab. It came about twenty minutes later, pulling into the driveway. She locked the front door and strolled to the waiting vehicle in full view, probably, of surveillance cameras. Well, she thought, there goes my reputation. The driver’s eyes lingered on her as he opened the door. “Goddard” she said.

  She wondered whether they would go inside to search the house now that she was gone. Had they known all along she was there? But why were they interested in Harry? Somehow they must be aware he had the Text.

  She was impressed. She had no doubt that Harry had ruined his life and placed her own career in jeopardy. But she was glad he’d done it.

  Harry would wind up in jail. Probably for a long time. She sat contemplating that melancholy prospect all the way to the Space Center, and her eyes were red when she emerged from the taxi outside her quarters at Venture Park.

  She retrieved her car and, forty minutes later, pulled into the parking lot at St. Luke’s.

  An officious middle-aged woman with pinched features was alone at the reception desk. She squinted through thick bifocals at Leslie. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m Dr. Davies,” she said. “An associate of mine, Dr. Edward Gambini, was brought in during the night. Cardiac problem. I’d like to see him or talk to someone familiar with his condition.”

  “Is he a patient of yours, Doctor?” the receptionist asked, her eyes raised conspicuously to the clock. It was twenty-five after seven.

  “Yes,” she said, tossing her professional ethics overboard more casually than she would have thought possible.

  The woman consulted her computer. “He’s in room four-sixteen. But Dr. Hartland is in charge, and he won’t be in until about ten. The patient can have visitors,” she said reassuringly, “but hours start at nine. Would you like to speak with someone at the nurses’ station?”

  “Please.”

  Dr. Gambini, the nurse reported, was awake. “But the chaplain is with him just now. Are you his personal physician?”

  “Yes. How serious is he?” The mention of the chaplain was alarming.

  “Father just came by,” the nurse said, hesitantly. “I’m sure Dr. Hartland would have no objection if you wanted to see Dr. Gambini.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “I’ll come up.”

  The blinds were drawn, and Gambini lay white and pale on the bed. His eyes were shut. A television screen glimmered fitfully in the corner over his head. It was set so the patient opposite could watch, but he seemed to be asleep with the headset over his ears. The “chaplain” turned out to be Pete Wheeler, in clerical black. “Nurses always make that assumption,” he remarked innocently.

  “I’m an M.D. today, myself,” she admitted, leaning over the still figure on the bed. “Ed?”

  His eyes opened, and she was glad to see they were lucid. “Hello,” he said.

  “How are you doing?”

  “Not so good.” His voice was a hollow rasp. “The dumb sons of bitches lost everything, Leslie. Can you believe that?” He looked back at Wheeler. “Tell her, Pete.”

  “It’s true,” the priest said. “Both sets of discs have been scrambled.”

  “Everything’s gone,” moaned Gambini. “It wouldn’t have happened except that the goddam security restrictions prevented us from making more copies.” His voice gave way, and he coughed heavily for a minute or two.

  “Don’t talk,” said Leslie.

  But he shook his head from side to side, and tears filled his eyes. “They think it was a heart attack,” he said. “Do you know when it happened? Right in front of Maloney. Christ, I was so embarrassed I could have died!” His deep sunk eyes lingered on Leslie, and he realized what he’d said and snickered.

  She smiled and brushed his hair back from his forehead. “Apparently you’re going to be okay,” she said.

  “He’s in good shape,” said Wheeler. “They want to run some tests, but his doctor says he has nothing to worry about.”

  “Pete,” he said, “they need some help over at NSA. Round up a few of our people. You know who. Talk to Harry; he can arrange it. Maybe they can save something. Get yourself over there, too. I think they’ll be a little more accommodating now.

  “I just can’t believe it,” he continued, wiping his eyes. He lost interest in his visitors and clamped his teeth tight together. His fingers were clenched.

  “What kind of sedative do they have him on?” Leslie asked Wheeler.

  He had no idea.

  “Whatever it is,” she said, “it isn’t enough to calm him down. I think, for a start, you and I ought to get out of here and let him rest. But first, I believe I can do something for him.” She took his left arm and stroked it gently until he looked up at her. “Ed,” she said, “Harry has the Text. It isn’t lost.”

  Gambini’s expression was slow to change; but the priest looked as if he’d been struck a heavy blow. “Harry has a copy?” Pete asked incredulously.

  Leslie realized immediately she’d made a mistake. But there was nothing for it but to tell the truth. “He’s out now hiding it. For the duration.”

  “Good old Harry,” said Gambini. “The son of a bitch is all right.” A broad grin was spreading across his face.

  “Who else knows?” asked Wheeler.

  “Apparently Maloney. Someone had Harry’s house staked out this morning.”

  “And Harry’s trying to hide it. Do you know where?”

  Gambini tried to sit up, but Leslie restrained him. “No,” she said. And if I did, I don’t think I’d tell you. “I have no idea.”

  Wheeler sat thoughtfully for a few moments. “I think I do.” He got up and started for the door.

  “I’ll go along, Pete,” said Leslie.

  “That’s really not necessary. Why don’t you stay here with Ed?”

  “I’m too worried to sit this out. I’d like to go.”

  “All right, then,” Wheeler said, seeing no easy way out of it. “But I want to stop by my apartment first.”

  Usually, when he was in Washington, Wheeler stayed at Georgetown University. But the Space Center had also provided a house, and the priest had, during recent months, been dividing time between the two temporary residences.

  He’d left the briefcase containing the electromagnet in the visiting faculty dayroom at Georgetown where he felt it would be reasonably safe until he had time to dispose of it. He recovered it now and carried it out to the car in which Leslie waited. “Let’s go,” he said.

  “Okay.” She pulled out onto Wisconsin Avenue. “Which way?”

  “Chesapeake Bay. Cut over to the Beltway.”

  Wheeler was a thoughtful, morose, taciturn man in the best of times. But on the long ride out to Saint Norbert’s Priory, he seemed locked in depression. Leslie knew him, as they all did, well enough to understand that he would have preferred that the Text stay dead. But his disappointment appeared to be deeper than that, and it seemed to include an element of bitterness.

  “Where are we headed?” she asked.

  “There’s a place along the bay,” he said as they passed through Billingsgate. “Harry told me once that it would be a good place to hide from the world. He had something else in mind then, but he might be thinking of that place now, too. We’ll see.”

  At Carsonville, they were held up by a collision between a tractor-trailer and a
motorcycle. The truck had been carrying newsprint; rolls of paper were scattered for a mile. After an hour or so, the police got things somewhat cleaned up, and they proceeded in a single lane. Rain continued to fall heavily. Wheeler rode with his arms folded, staring gloomily at the slick highway.

  By late morning they were approaching Basil Point under skies that had begun to clear. She made the turn from Route 2 a little too sharply, dropped the right wheels off the shoulder into mud and wet leaves, spun slightly, and regained the road.

  “Take it easy,” the priest said. “No point getting us killed.”

  They climbed the ridge, and rounded the long loop past the manor houses. Ahead, under a screen of trees, she saw a lodge. Just beyond it, overlooking a steep descent, two cars were parked side by side.

  “Stop here,” said Wheeler.

  They were in the middle of a field. “Why?”

  “Here!” he repeated, with sudden exasperation. And then, after she had complied: “Harry’s car isn’t here, and those two don’t belong to the Norbertines.”

  “Maybe he rented one.”

  They got out and hurried across the wet grass. “We’re too late,” Wheeler groaned.

  One vehicle had a CB radio; a large red tubular signal light was pushed under the front seat. “It’s a portable blinker,” said Leslie. She circled the second car, saw nothing to draw her attention, looked down the side of the hill at the trees near its base, and turned toward the lodge.

  “No,” Wheeler said, “not that way.” He remained standing in front of the cars, staring out over the treetops. The downside of the hill was steep, carpeted by long grass. At bottom, about fifty yards down, the trees started again.

  The wind carried voices to them. In the stillness, they seemed to come from all directions.

  “They caught him with the discs,” the priest said in a curt whisper. “Les, we’ve got to rescue them.”

  “Them? We’ve got to rescue them? I came to help Harry, Pete. As far as I’m concerned, they can have the discs.”

  “Of course,” said Wheeler. “That’s what I meant.”

  An odd look passed between them. He began to breathe more easily. “Get down the hill,” he said. “Please. I’m going to create a diversion. Do what you can—”

  She was gone before he could finish.

  The grass was slippery underfoot, but she negotiated it quickly, and slid and plunged into the trees at bottom. Although the voices had stopped, she could hear people walking. Above her, Wheeler was gone, and she could see only the lodge and the bumpers and grills of the two cars.

  Sunlight began to filter through the branches, and something buzzed around her head.

  “This way!” a voice cried. “It’s dry over here!”

  And she saw them, two men in overshoes walking single file with an obviously unhappy Harry between them. The taller of the two, who brought up the rear, watched the prisoner (she thought) almost sympathetically. The man leading the way stomped through the bushes and high grass with evident irritation. Everything about them suggested they were police officers: they systematically surveyed the surrounding trees, and they walked with the resigned manner one sees in lawmen who’ve just landed a miscreant.

  Fortunately, the miscreant wasn’t handcuffed.

  She moved closer and crouched behind an oak. They passed her, Harry so close that she could have poked him with a short branch. He looked briefly in her direction, but she dared not show herself.

  Leslie was behind them when they came out of the woods and started up the hill.

  She waited anxiously, wondering what Wheeler could possibly do to distract the agents long enough for her to snatch Harry away. Her whole world was about to end. She, the priest, Harry—all of them would show up on the late news, being escorted by marshals into a federal courtroom somewhere. She’d be shielding her face with a newspaper, and they’d give her eight years.

  If she got the opportunity, she promised herself she would slug both Harry and Wheeler. But how could she be angry with Harry, who even now appeared to be looking for a chance to escape? The agent in front, watching him, said something. But Harry, towering over both men, maintained an expression of open defiance that seemed utterly out of character.

  The taller agent stopped and looked directly at her. Leslie had moved from the oak, and now hid behind a leafy screen that seemed suddenly transparent. He continued to stare until Harry’s attention was also drawn in her direction. And finally the agent turned away. She stood up immediately in full view!

  To his everlasting credit, Harry did not react.

  They’d gone about four more steps when the agents’ car, the Chevrolet, edged forward, and began, slowly at first, to roll down the hill. The lawmen reacted quickly: one stayed with Harry while the other, the sandy-haired man, scrambled to get alongside the vehicle, which was gathering speed.

  Leslie bolted up the incline. Harry watched her coming, and the agent with him saw something in his prisoner’s eyes. He half-turned toward her, reflexively going down on one knee, but Harry planted a foot against his buttocks and sent him sprawling into space, past the charging woman. “Top of the hill,” Leslie shouted, never slowing her pace.

  Unaware of what had happened, the sandy-haired man ran alongside the Chevrolet, wrenched the door open, but couldn’t get in. He grabbed for the steering wheel just as the car bounced off a rock and veered suddenly away from him. He was yanked from his feet and dragged.

  Wheeler waited by Harry’s rented car. “Where are the discs?” he asked.

  Harry looked uncomfortably at the priest. “In the trunk,” he said.

  The two men at the bottom of the hill had recovered themselves and were starting toward them. Their car was wedged between two trees. One was shouting something. “Let’s go,” said Wheeler, climbing into the back seat of the rented vehicle. “Leslie, you should get your car out of here. They’ll trace it.”

  Harry had started the engine. She hesitated, then jumped in beside him. “Hell with it,” she said. “They know who we are.”

  As they backed out, showering gravel in several directions, Harry got a glimpse of Wheeler’s briefcase, which he’d laid on the back seat. His heart sank.

  Max Gold lit a cigarette. “What are you going to do?” he asked.

  The President pushed his chair away from the desk and crossed his legs. His jacket lay on the settee where he’d dropped it casually a few moments before. His sleeves were rolled halfway up his forearms, and his tie was jerked loose. But he looked mysteriously pleased. “What would you do, Max?”

  “Our first priority is to recover the Hercules Text,” he said.

  “Yes, it would seem so.”

  “And we need to keep the incident from the Soviets.”

  “The KGB already knows part of the story.”

  Gold’s cigarette flared. “Which part?”

  “That the discs were scrambled when they got to NSA.”

  “How the hell could they have learned that?” the secretary exploded. “Christ, John, when you find out who gave that away, hang the son of a bitch.” He stared in hot fury at the President. “Would you explain something to me, please? How can you sit there grinning at all this?”

  “Max,” said Hurley, “I believe I am the son of a bitch you want to hang.”

  “You?” Gold’s jaw sagged.

  “We gave the information to Colonel Bridge.”

  The secretary of state was appalled. Bridge was a Soviet agent in the Pentagon, the highest known penetration the KGB had made. The American counterintelligence community had known about him for years. But he’d been left in place and even given occasional worthless (and sometimes not so worthless) secrets to keep his credibility high with his masters and to keep him available as a conduit for misinformation that the United States wanted passed to the Kremlin. “Why?” he demanded. “In the name of God, John, why would you give that away ?”

  “Because it’ll help take the pressure off the people in Moscow who’ve go
t themselves, and us, into this corner. If there is no more Text, we can’t very well give it to them.”

  “What about ORION?”

  “The particle beam? I don’t mind their having that. It’s just the method of getting it to them that makes me uncomfortable. Maybe we could funnel that through Bridge, too.” His amusement deepened. “Afterward we could probably catch Bridge and have a big trial, public scandal and all that. The Soviets would be left with no doubt that everything they got from him was authentic, including the fact that the discs are lost. That’s the bottom line.”

  Gold felt the weight on his own shoulders lessening. “I never believed,” he said, “that the Soviets would have really attacked anyhow.”

  “Maybe. It’s a question we can each address, I hope, in our memoirs.”

  “So now it’s simply a matter of getting the duplicate discs back from Carmichael, and it will be clear sailing.”

  “Max, Max.” The President broke out a bottle of brandy and two snifters. “We’re rid of them,” he said, pulling out the cork and pouring some into each glass. “Why would I want them back?”

  “But you’re not rid of them,” said Gold. “The KGB isn’t going to simply buy all this without looking at it a little more closely. The discs could end up in their hands.”

  “Yes,” said Hurley. “That’s possible. But it isn’t Harry Carmichael we have to contend with here; it’s Pete Wheeler.”

  “The priest?”

  “Yes. Carmichael would not have done this on his own. We’ve been going over his life very carefully, Max. Harry’s a dull man who has a lot of respect for authority. No, it’s the priest who wanted the discs destroyed. And it’s the priest who would have known how to do it. Carmichael would never have known.

  “But I don’t think Harry could bring himself to destroy it. So he made a copy somehow and got it out of the facility.”

  “And you think he can keep it safe? From the KGB?”

  “You worry too much, Max. The KGB thinks it’s gone. No reason for them to think otherwise. And if I know Wheeler, by now it is gone.”

  Gold began to laugh. “Then it’s over,” he said. “It’s really over.”