“Our initial tests confirm that you did not suffer a heart attack,” she said, “yet you clearly experienced all the obvious symptoms—dizziness, chest pain, shortness of breath, plus your history.”
“He turned pasty white before he collapsed,” said Lexy. “It was frightening.”
“I would have leaned toward the possibility of pacemaker syndrome,” said Dr. Nealon. “It sometimes occurs when the timing between the two chambers loses synchronization and less blood is delivered with each heartbeat. However, your implanted ICD is designed to orchestrate cardioversion, defibrillation, and the pacing of the heart. It’s programmed to sense an abnormal heart rhythm and respond automatically to address the tachycardia. Your device appears to be functioning perfectly.”
“Fine,” said Barnaby. “I did not have a heart attack. Have someone bring me my clothes.”
“I’m afraid not,” said Dr. Nealon firmly. “This may have been a fortunate precursor, an episode that gives us the opportunity to perform additional tests to find out what is happening inside you.”
“What is happening inside me is that I’m ready to sign a release form stating that I decline to be experimented on any longer,” said Barnaby. “I can only assume that your tender concern stems from the fact that like all hospitals you are besieged by contingency lawyers. I pledge that I won’t add to your burden.”
“That is absolutely untrue,” said Dr. Nealon with heat in her voice. “Based on your history, your life is genuinely at risk until we have the opportunity to find out why this arrhythmic anomaly occurred.”
“Just how would you do that?” he asked.
“Like Sherlock Holmes,” said Dr. Nealon with a grim smile. “Eliminate all other factors and the one that remains must be the truth.”
“Please, Barnaby,” said Lexy. “Give her a chance.”
“Fine. Question away,” said Barnaby.
“Have you recently played any contact sports?”
He stared back up at her with such a look of sheer incredulity that Lexy burst out laughing.
“I know it is unlikely,” said the doctor. “What about any activities that might have involved an intense magnetic field such as arc welding . . . or possibly a new set of headphones to listen to music? They can also cause an arrhythmic irregularity or loss of the atrial input to the ventricle.”
“Arc welding,” repeated Barnaby with another level of astonishment. “I’m leaving.”
Lexy put her hand on his shoulder to restrain him.
“What about a malfunctioning battery in his ICD?” she asked the doctor.
“They typically last at least six years,” said Dr. Nealon. “We already checked. His battery is functioning normally, as is the computer chip, the capacitor, and the electrode wire to the right ventricle. We have to perform more tests before we can rule out other possibilities.”
Barnaby removed the sheet from his naked chest and began climbing out of the bed.
“You can’t be released until—”
“I’m releasing myself,” said Barnaby, his half-naked form attracting the stares of the patients in the adjoining beds as two more nurses arrived. “If you don’t bring me my clothes, I’m walking out of here in my birthday suit.”
Finally surrendering, Dr. Nealon directed one nurse to bring his clothes and another to get his signature on a release form. Barnaby’s only concession was to allow them to deliver him to the hospital entrance in a wheelchair, and that was only after Dr. Nealon threatened to call the security guards to put him in restraints.
Ten minutes later, he was dressed and rolling toward the hospital’s emergency room entrance in a wheelchair pushed by one of the nurses. Lexy had called ahead, and the car assigned to them by Ira Dusenberry was waiting outside.
“Thank you for your kind ministrations,” Barnaby said to the nurse as he climbed out of the chair and began walking toward the car.
He walked briskly through the door with Lexy following close behind. As they drew nearer to the curb, she saw the driver step out of the car and open the rear passenger door for them.
She heard Barnaby issue a loud sigh and his step faltered. A moment later, he collapsed to the pavement. He was barely conscious as Lexy and the driver lifted him back into the wheelchair.
Dr. Nealon was standing with her arms crossed by the automatic doors of the intensive care unit with a smug and superior smile on her face when Barnaby was wheeled back inside a few minutes later.
ELEVEN
18 May
Army and Navy Club
901 Seventeenth Street NW
Washington, D.C.
Macaulay awoke in his room on the seventh floor to traffic noise below as the morning logjam of cars and taxis inched its way toward the K Street lobbying towers. He had always slept well at the club ever since his academy days. The phone next to his bed began to ring and he picked it up.
“I have something important to discuss with you, dear boy,” said Tommy Somervell. “Are you free for breakfast?”
“Fifteen minutes,” said Steve.
“I’m bringing June Corcoran with me,” said Tommy. “She loves the Eisenhower special with shirred eggs.”
Macaulay happened to be looking at a wall-mounted photograph of Eisenhower addressing the men of the 101st Airborne as they were about to take off for the D-day invasion. He recalled that June Corcoran was one of the people in Tommy’s team when they exposed the mole in the White House. The phone rang again. It was Lexy.
“He’s resting,” said Lexy, “but not very comfortably.”
“The doctors would have had to use an elephant tranquilizer on him for that,” said Macaulay.
They had talked on the phone the night before when Lexy was leaving the hospital for her hotel after making sure Barnaby’s condition was stable. She had told Macaulay about his first seizure at the museum as well as the second one as they were leaving the hospital the first time. Odd timing, Macaulay had thought.
“The FBI and the police are still searching for Professor Choate,” she said. “We may have been the last people to see him.”
“He seems to have a pretty good instinct for self-preservation,” said Steve. “He may have gone into hiding if something triggered a warning.”
“I think you should get back here,” said Lexy. “We have to plan our next steps if Barnaby isn’t physically capable of continuing.”
“I’m meeting with Tommy Somervell in a few minutes,” he said. “I’ll take a flight from Andrews as soon as we’re done.”
“I’m amazed that man is still around,” said Lexy. “He is so . . . gaudy.”
“Gaudy is the right word,” said Macaulay. “But he’s still going strong. Let’s meet at the Homeland Security Building on 125th Street. If Tommy learns something important, we may need to receive encrypted material.”
Tommy was waiting for him downstairs in the lobby under the painting of Admiral David Farragut.
“This is June Corcoran,” said Tommy, introducing the rail-thin woman who was standing next to him. “She tracked down the mole in the White House for us.”
Looking down at her, Steve was reminded of the Willie Stargell model first baseman’s glove he had once had in Little League. His brother had left it in the backyard and it had been lying outside all winter when Steve found it in the spring.
She might have been attractive once, but now her perceptive gray eyes gazed up at him from a mass of tiny cracks and fissures in the elfin face. Well into her sixties, she had dead-looking, brownish gray hair and was wearing a red pantsuit with a frayed collar. She smelled of cigarette smoke.
They entered the elegant main dining room together. Tommy looked up at the familiar murals and the soaring ceiling as the waiter escorted them to their table. Like Macaulay, he had enjoyed many celebrations in this room over the years. He was glad that there were no other diners in th
e nearby tables.
After they ordered, Tommy confided in a low tone, “June has already confirmed that the top secret documents related to that truck convoy to Camp Holcomb still exist in a top secret archive. The papers aren’t itemized, so there is no way to know how much there is without getting access to the folder.”
“Its official designation is Support Facility Twelve,” said June Corcoran, finishing her first cup of coffee. Her voice was as gritty as sand.
A white-jacketed waiter rushed over to refill it a few moments later from a sterling silver pot. She waited until he moved on to another table.
“It was one of the first true intelligence repositories and is located in the Catoctin Mountains near the presidential retreat at Camp David,” she said. “World War Two was coming when it was built, and there were German spies all over the country. The War Department used it initially to protect material from their counterintelligence investigations and it was expanded during the Cold War with Russia. It’s very secure.”
“How secure?” asked Macaulay.
“I was there once. It’s built into a mountain and equipped with the latest intrusion-detection systems, permanent guard patrols, closed-circuit video monitoring, and steel-lined vaults,” said June.
Macaulay’s face reflected his obvious disappointment.
“Don’t worry, General . . . I think I have a workable plan,” she said, polishing off another cup of coffee.
When the waiter left again, she said, “The documents are stored in an unsealed file box with other contemporary material from the beginning of the war that was classified top secret at the time. Some of those documents have since been declassified, but never removed from the box. I found the reference numbers for all of them, including yours. I needed to find one of the declassified folders that has enough seeming relevance for Tommy to request access to it now.”
Tommy grinned.
“Give,” said Macaulay.
“The folder we have chosen is relevant to understanding how high-ranking political officials place themselves in jeopardy of blackmail through indiscreet sexual alliances. I’ve informed my betters that I am planning to do a paper on it.”
“Well, you’re definitely the man to write a paper on that subject,” said Macaulay.
“Entirely true, dear boy,” said Tommy. “Once we are into the file box, the challenge will be to divert our archivist long enough for me to copy what is in your folder.”
“Why would you need to go there personally?” asked Macaulay. “Why wouldn’t you just send for it?”
“Enhanced security, dear boy,” he said. “These days it’s all about enhanced security . . . going the extra mile or two to protect the source.”
“Do you remember Sumner Welles?” June asked Macaulay while removing an unfiltered cigarette from a silver case.
“You can’t—” began Macaulay.
“I know,” she interrupted. “We’re just getting acquainted.”
“The name is familiar,” said Macaulay.
“Franklin Roosevelt made him undersecretary of state under Cordell Hull during the Second World War,” said June. “Welles and FDR both went to Groton. Someone once wrote that Welles had enough dignity to be the viceroy of India. . . . Anyway, he was running the State Department at the time and Hull didn’t like it.”
“Very noble looking,” agreed Tommy. “In September 1940, Welles accompanied FDR to the funeral of an important congressman from Alabama. On the way back to Washington, Welles paid for sex with two black car porters on the train. Word somehow got back to Cordell Hull, who was looking for a way to get rid of him. That’s what started the paper chain in the file box I asked to see. We’re heading out there after breakfast.”
“Was it true?” asked Macaulay.
“The car porters were questioned by the FBI and the information slowly went up the food chain. The same week that our truck convoy was making its way to Camp Holcomb in China, the information about Welles was leaked to a Republican senator from Maine who opposed Roosevelt. Interestingly, J. Edgar Hoover refused to release the FBI file and Welles hung on at state with FDR’s support until 1943, when he was forced to resign.”
“I’m going out for a smoke,” said June.
Macaulay saw that she hadn’t taken a bite of the omelet on her plate.
“Is she all right?” asked Macaulay.
“Hardly,” said Tommy. “She’s dying of lung cancer . . . maybe six months.”
Macaulay nodded.
“She’s had a good run,” said Tommy. “Up until a few years ago, she was doing the only thing that she said made her life worth living. Now she’s with me out in the pasture.”
Steve told Tommy to call him on his secure phone if they were able to penetrate the intelligence repository and gain access to the top secret folder. He watched as Tommy went out through the front entrance and joined June Corcoran on the sidewalk facing Farragut Square. She took a last deep pull on her cigarette and placed it in one of the sand-filled urns near the entrance. Together, they began walking toward the parking lot across the street.
TWELVE
18 May
Support Facility Twelve
Catoctin Mountains
Maryland
The distant peaks of the Blue Ridge Range loomed high above the windshield as Tommy pulled the car off the road so they could consult the map again. The new Toyota was equipped with a global positioning system, but their destination was not recognized by the satellite.
The tree-lined country highway in the Maryland countryside displayed no markers at any of the turnoffs. June was working from a set of directions sent to her secure data phone by an archivist at the repository.
“It’s right up ahead,” she said, a dense plume of cigarette smoke passing out the half-open passenger window.
They turned off the highway and drove four miles along a two-lane macadam road. There was no break in the dense forest that bordered both sides of the road. Tommy noted the pleasant blend of white oak, maple, and birch trees. The leaves above them shimmered in the midday sun and at one point joined completely together above them in an enchanting canopy.
“Very beautiful spot,” said June. “You can sprinkle some of my ashes along here when the leaves are turning this fall.”
“I’ll add it to the list,” said Tommy. “That makes at least ten resting places.”
“What else will you have to do by then?” she said.
“True,” he agreed.
“Don’t feel sorry for me,” she said. “I’m old enough to remember when a man delivered milk and eggs to our door every other morning. I was lucky enough to have had two great loves in my life, believe it or not, and I buried both of them.”
“I know, June,” said Tommy. “Listen, we’re going to need a diversion when we get into the stacks. I have one planned, although it will certainly draw attention.”
“What is it?” asked June skeptically.
He slid his right index finger inside his belt and removed a thin sliver of plastic. It was about the size of a stick of chewing gum inside an airtight seal. “It’s a smoke device. Once I tear the seal and drop it on the floor, it takes exactly seven minutes to activate and is designed to expend itself without leaving a trace. The trick is timing it so that we will have reached and opened the file box in time for the diversion to work.”
“I don’t like it,” said June.
A ten-foot-high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire suddenly appeared along the right side of the road. It continued on for at least a half mile until they arrived at a white-painted steel gate. Tommy turned off onto the gravel road leading up to it. The gate was fifteen feet wide and anchored by two concrete stanchions.
“This is it,” said June as Tommy slipped the piece of plastic back into the slit pouch in his belt.
There were no signs indicating a fede
ral government installation. Tommy could see a video camera and another small electronic unit of some kind mounted on top of the left gatepost. The fence along the road beyond the gate extended as far as he could see. June thrust her identification card out the window and held the back side of it up to the electronic unit.
“They’re reading the encrypted information on the card,” she said, “and matching it to the visitors’ schedule.”
The gate slowly swung open. Two security guards approached them. One was carrying what looked like a mine detector. He used it to scan the underside of the car while the second one came to the driver’s-side door.
“Please open your trunk,” he said, “and stand away from the car.”
When Tommy saw they were satisfied there were no bombs in the car, the second guard waved them into the car and told them to drive to the reception area. It turned out to be a nondescript one-story brick building with casement windows about a hundred yards farther along the gravel road.
A short, plump Chinese-American woman in a navy business suit was waiting for them just inside the entrance to the building. She introduced herself as Alice Chen and shook their hands. She was in her early thirties and had lustrous black hair pinned back in a bun. Tommy could see she was nervous. He wondered if word had come down from on high at Langley that they were to be denied access to even the declassified material.
It was a different reason.
“I just wanted you to know that you are my hero, Mrs. Corcoran,” she said. “The reason I am here at all is entirely due to the example you set so long ago for us as career women in the agency.”
“Thank you, my child,” said June. “I have lived for the work. I don’t recommend you do the same. Savor the days. There may not be as many as you—”
June suddenly turned her face away and was racked by a fit of coughing that lasted thirty seconds.
“I’m so sorry,” said Alice Chen, her eyes going liquid.
Two more uniformed security guards were waiting for them in the area beyond the front desk. They flanked two metal detector units, one for people and the other for their personal items. Beyond those was a full-body scanner.
The Bone Hunters Page 11