The Tomorrow File

by Lawrence Sanders

  The black zipsuit returned with a tub of Jellicubes, then disappeared. I mixed vodka-and-Smacks for both of us. We hoisted plastiglasses to each other, smiled, sipped delicately. Then we sat in silence. I wanted her to make the approach. Finally. . . .

  “You said. . . .” she murmured faintly. Then stopped.

  “Yes, Mrs. Wingate?”

  “I asked you to call me Grace. Will you not?”

  “I want to,” I said. Still smiling. “But it’s difficult. Your husband is very important.”

  “I know. Oh, God, do I know. Nick, what have you—”

  I pursed my lips and pressed them with a forefinger. So dramatic! A Restoration comedy. She rose and moved toward French windows. I joined her there. We looked over a rather scrubby garden. A kneeling em, head shielded with a white riot helmet, was loosening dry soil about azalea bushes.

  “You must be patient,” I urged her. “I promised to help, and I shall. Grace, tell me—are you certain? Of your husband and Angela Berri?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  I had to force her, not only for my own need to know, but to make her face it and say it.

  “Are they users?” I asked.

  She tried to speak but couldn’t. Finally she nodded dumbly. I I wanted to tongue that vulval ear revealed as her fine hair swung aside.

  “Do you have any letters, documents, tapes—any physical evidence?”

  She looked at me scornfully.

  “Physical evidence? I have all the physical evidence I need.

  "Nick, a wife 'knows'.”

  “Yes, yes,” I said quickly. Convinced.

  She put a hand on my arm.

  “Nick,” she said, “you’re my only hope.”

  In retrospect I can be objective. But at that particular moment in time, I was so overwhelmed by her proximity, her presence—scent, the matte of her skin, dark eyes, syrupy voice—that I would have said anything, done anything to prolong the interview.

  “I asked you to have patience,” I repeated. “A month, two months, possibly three. No longer.”

  “Then you’ll—you’ll—” She couldn’t finish.

  “Yes,” I told her. “Then I’ll stop Angela Berri, or myself be stopped. Is that guarantee enough?”

  We stood motionless, not speaking. Did her look turn to sympathy? To pity? To acquiescence? To complaisance? I simply did not know. A pulse fluttered low on her neck. I wanted to swoop and kiss it still. Strange that even then—so early—I was aware of what was happening.

  There was a sharp rap at the parlor door. The moment shattered. We turned back into the room. A black zipsuit announced scheduled visitors. I made a polite farewell, leaving my prospectus to her.

  At the doorway, smiling her good-bye, one hand rose almost languidly and touched the back of my head, my neck.

  “Thank you, Nick,” she said.

  I was lost, I thought suddenly. For some reason I did not wish to compute, the thought pleased me.

  It took almost two hours, in a cab, and visits to five jewelry shops before I was able to locate and purchase an exact replica of Grace Wingate’s necklace—a silvery snowflake swinging from a leather thong.

  But I was only ten minutes late for my meeting with Paul Bumford and Mary Bergstrom in front of DOB headquarters. I climbed into the back of the limousine, and we started off for New York immediately.

  “Well?” I asked Paul.

  “Worse than we supposed,” he reported. “Very heavy social unrest. They’re pillowing most of it—but who knows for how long? Bombings, assassinations, arson, kidnappings. A complete mosaic.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “That's what’s so weird. Everyone agrees it’s not organized. Just a kind of general discontent.”

  “But why?" I said loudly. Angrily. “They never had it so good.”

  “The pee-pul." Paul shrugged. “Who knows?”

  “Show them,” Mary Bergstrom muttered sullenly.

  We both, Paul and I, looked at her in astonishment. But she volunteered nothing more, and we went on as if she had never spoken.

  The remainder of the trip was spent reviewing input from the Field Offices at Houston, Spokane, and Honolulu, dealing with the physiological, psychological, and mental sources of pleasure. Even these preliminary reports generated grave questions. We drove through gathering darkness, debating the nature of happiness.

  Y-9

  I visited my Times Square mail drop every day. Nothing from Simon Hawkley. Anxiety growing. My position was perilous. I was owner of a factory selling drugs to my own department of government. I knew what the results of discovery would be.

  Finally, on September 20, rainy, windswept, I found a short, coded message from Hawkley. Just three series of numbers. Decoded: FISH BITING. CALL.

  I called San Diego from a corner booth. We kept our conversation as brief and cryptic as possible. A letter had arrived at Scilla Pharmaceuticals from Headquarters, Department of Bliss. It was signed by an Edward T. Collins. His title was Commercial Coordinator, Security & Intelligence. It stated that since Scilla was engaged in the production and sale to the US Government of restricted drugs, according to Public Law, Section DOB-46-H3, subsection 2X-31G, the premises, the production methods, and the distribution procedures of Scilla were required to be examined and approved periodically. At 1500, on September 29, Mr. Art Roach, Chief, Security & Intelligence, would arrive at Scilla to make such an inspection.

  I told Simon Hawkley I would get back to him with instructions for Seymour Dove well before Roach’s arrival.

  I discussed it with Paul Bumford that night.

  “You really think they’re taking the bait?” he asked.

  “Definitely,” I told him. “Those in situ inspections are customarily made by a road crew, PS-4’s, conditioned for that service. I never heard of an S-and-I chief inspecting a factory personally. ”

  “You don’t seem too happy,” he said.

  “I’m happy enough. I suppose, subconsciously, I was hoping Angela would make the approach personally. But I should have known better. I should have known she’d use Roach as a bagman, keep a level between her and the overt act. Then, if push came to shove, she could terminate him with prejudice. Well, we’ll have to manipulate Roach and compromise her through him. Let’s get started on the scenario. The first consideration is the time frame. . .

  There was never any doubt that Paul and I would have to be in San Diego when the trap was sprung. In fact, we’d have to be there a day or two earlier to help install and test the sharing equipment in Seymour Dove’s office at Scilla, and to instruct and rehearse him in his role.

  “Getting out there with a legitimate cover should be no problem,” I said. “I have a backlog of threedays. You can go out to inspect Nancy Ching’s operations in the FO. The problem is-— where do we stay? The letter Scilla received states that Roach will arrive at 1500 on September twenty-ninth. But what if he takes a threeday and gets there on the twenty-seventh, or maybe just a day earlier to scout the ground? His profile says he is shrewd, clever, suspicious. We’re so close now, Paul, we can’t take the chance of getting out there early and discover we’ve checked into the hotel where he’s staying. Am I being paranoid?”

  “My God, no!” Paul said. “We can’t leave anything to chance: It’s risky enough as it is. How about Nancy Ching’s place on the beach?”

  “Think she'd let us have it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Yesss,” I said slowly. Computing. “I think that would serve. We’ll stay out there as much as possible, going into the city only when it’s absolutely necessary. That should reduce a chance meeting with Roach to the ult min. Now let’s talk about what equipment we’ll need. Chauncey Higgles, Limited, will supply the heavy stuff. But we’ll need cameras, film, maybe some personal devices. Just in case.”

  We served long hours for three evenings. We went over the Personality Profile of Art Roach, trying to determine how he might react in certain situations
. We pored over the Federal Criminal Code to determine what kind of evidence we’d need to stop Art Roach and Angela Berri.

  Finally, the scenario was in a form where anything added or subtracted would just be tinkering. We agreed to go ahead with what we had. I sent a letter to Simon Hawkley the following morning by commercial mail. Merely: “Arriving Sept. 27. Adventurer.”

  After our planning was completed, in the few days prior to September 27, I served hard, clearing my desk for the threeday 1 announced I was taking. I doubted any emergency would arise. But if it did, I told Ellen Dawes she could contact me through my father in Grosse Pointe, Michigan. I sent my father a letter instructing him to forward any messages for me to the San Diego Field Office.

  We arrived in San Diego, on a commercial flight, a little before 1100, Pacific time, on the morning of September 27. We rented a black, two-door Dodge sedan, a Piranha, with a high-performance eight-cylinder internal combustion engine. Nancy Ching had closed her beachhouse for the season, but had readily agreed to lend it to Paul. She had promised to leave the keys in the sand under the first step of the porch.

  We drove directly there, stopping just once to pick up vodka, Smack, some sandwich groceries. It took us about an hour to get the place aired out, to unpack, and settle in. Then I called Simon Hawkley to announce our arrival. I told him from then on, I would deal directly with Seymour Dove at Scilla and keep my contacts with him, Hawkley, to a minimum. He approved of my caution. I thought he might wish me good luck, but he didn’t. Perhaps he didn’t think I’d need it.

  I then called Seymour Dove at Scilla, told him where we were, asked when he could join us. He said two hours. I told him we’d be waiting. And so we did. Wait. We spent the time discussing unexplored approaches in the development of the UP pill. I know I felt no nervousness about our current activity. If Paul felt any, at this late stage, he hid it very well.

  I had alerted Paul, but still he was startled when Seymour Dove sauntered in. A vision in peacock blue, including blue sunglasses, blue sandals, blue bone earrings, blue eye shadow, and a blue, feathered hat left over from the road company of The Three Musketeers. He grinned at us, whites flashing against that incredibly tanned skin. Then he twirled slowly for our inspection, arms akimbo.

  “Jerk you?” he said.

  Paul laughed, and we all stroked palms. We made vodka-and-Smacks and prowurst sandwiches. Then we started on the details of the scenario.

  We all agreed that the sharing operation should be kept as simple as possible. Seymour Dove pointed out that with the number of servers at Scilla, assigned to all levels of the main building, including the basement, it would be practically impossible to place clandestine wiring and power sources without being observed. We would have to opt for self-powered devices. The critical danger was that such devices could usually be detected by a portable meter, or even a wrist monitor. Art Roach might well be carrying or wearing either.

  I believed I had the answer to this problem. In scanning the Chauncey Higgles, Ltd., catalogue, provided by Mrs. Agatha Whiggam, I had noted a new (1997) device which seemed almost to have been designed with our mission in mind.

  It was a conventional, one-meter TV receiver, a console model available in three furniture styles: Contemporary, Traditional, and Mediterranean. It was not one of the new 3-D, laser-holograph sets, but still utilized a cathode tube. However, installed within the tube, photographing through the plastiglas faceplate, was a miniaturized TV camera, picking up both sight and sound. It was powered by the electric current supplying the television set.

  Its greatest advantage was that the set was always “hot." That is, diminished power was constantly fed to the picture tube so that, when the viewer clicked the On button, it was not necessary to wait ten seconds for the set to warm up; the image appeared on screen almost instantaneously. Thus, if the set was checked with a meter, of course it would show a power flow, for a very innocent reason.

  We agreed that such a set, designed for home or office, would be entirely appropriate in the executive suite of Scilla Pharmaceuticals. The monitor was small, compact, and would easily fit into the back seat of our rented Dodge sedan. The monitor consisted of a loudspeaker, a 20 cm viewing screen, and a TV tape attachment by which voice and visual communication could be recorded. We, in turn, in the car, could talk to Seymour Dove via his TV set.

  So it was decided that Paul and I, with the monitor, would park in the copse of trees bordering the road that ran in front of the Scilla plant. The trees, fortunately, were in the opposite direction from that Roach would probably take in arriving at the factory by taxi or rented car. The chances of his spotting and recognizing us were minimal. And our parking area was well within the claimed range of the TV camera transmitter.

  Then we went over Seymour Dove’s role. Several times. I gave him a page of dialogue we had prepared: questions to ask Art Roach, the answers to which, we hoped, would implicate Angela

  Berri. Dove was a quick study. He scanned the page swiftly, nodded, handed it back.

  “All right,” Paul said. “Let’s try it. Pretend I’m Art Roach.” They went into the suggested dialogue:

  Paul: “So you see, Mr. Dove, if you want that contract, it’ll cost you.”

  Dove: “How much?”

  Paul: “Ten percent.”

  Dove: “Ten? My God, there goes my profit.”

  Paul: “Not at all. If the contract figures out to a hundred thousand, bid a hundred and ten. You’ll get it. No loss to you. You get the hundred. We get the ten. Up front.”

  Dove: “Up front? Jesus! How do I know I can trust you. No offense to you, but I’ve never seen you before. I’ve never even heard of you. You’re in Security and Intelligence. All my dealings up to now have been with Satisfaction Section.”

  Paul: “Who did you deal with in SATSEC?”

  Dove: “The last purchase order was signed by Nicholas Flair. But before that, it was Angela Berri.”

  Paul: “That’s who you’re dealing with now.”

  Dove: “Berri? But she’s Director of Bliss.”

  Paul: “That’s right.”

  Dove: “You mean she’s in on this?”

  Paul: “She’s in all right. She’s your guarantee.”

  Then Seymour Dove looked at me, troubled.

  “Something wrong?” I asked him.

  “I don’t know,” he said hesitantly. “Look, I don’t want to damper this thing. I'll serve on it. You ems know what you’re doing. You know the objects concerned. But ...”

  “But what?” Paul asked.

  “I’ve been involved in deals like this before,” Dove said, shaking his head. “Believe me, it’s never that easy.”

  “Well,” I said, “you know what we want. If Roach doesn’t follow the scenario, you’ll have to play it by ear.”

  “That I can do.” He nodded.

  I admired the em. He appeared to welcome the challenge. A new role at the San Fernando Playhouse. He was the star and would get great reviews. He had the unreasoning confidence of all actors.

  We spent the following morning and early afternoon installing and testing the equipment. Paul and I picked up the monitor at the Chauncey Higgles, Ltd., warehouse on Sampson Street. Then we drove to our stakeout under the trees. Higgles delivered the fiddled television set to Scilla Pharmaceuticals in a van chastely marked “New World TV Service & Repair.” Seymour Dove had it positioned at one end of his long office, against the wall. The hidden camera covered practically the entire room. The image we received on the small monitor screen was remarkably detailed. Not as bright as I would have liked, but adequate. Sound reception was excellent.

  Paul drove me back to the beachhouse, then left to put in an appearance at the Field Office and take Nancy Ching to dinner. I went for a swim, then walked down the road to a seafood restaurant and gnawed futilely at a rubberized abalone steak afloat in an oleaginous sauce. Finally I gave up, returned to the cottage, made two more prowurst sandwiches. I washed them down with vodka-and-Sma
cks, while watching a televised execution. A rapist-murderer was being hanged. It was messy. But I imagined the ratings would be lovable.

  We were in position by 1430 the next day. Well off the road. Practically against the tree trunks. We had brought sandwiches and cans of Smack. Not so much to assuage hunger, but as an excuse for parking in case a highway patrol car stopped to look us over.

  Paul sat in the back seat, tending the monitor. I sat up front, behind the wheel. I held the mike, on a short cord. We both watched the screen. Dove’s office was empty.

  At 1440 an ef secretary came in and placed a folder on Seymour Dove’s desk. She scratched her ass before departing. I don’t believe either Paul or I smiled.

  Dove entered the office about 1450. He came over to stand directly in front of the television set.

  “Receiving?” he asked softly.

  “Fine,” I said. Just as softly. “Picture and sound good.”

  He stood motionless a moment.

  "Would you like to see my impersonation of President Hilton?” He grinned.

  “No, ” 1 said. It was the first time he had evidenced nervousness.

  He went back behind his desk, sat down, began to scan papers in the folder the secretary had left.

  1455.

  1500.

  1505.

  Dove glanced once toward the TV set, seemed about to speak, then thought better of it.

  At 1525, Dove’s desk flasher chimed. He switched it on. We could see no image on the flasher screen. It was obviously a phone call.

  “Seymour Dove,” he said. His voice was steady and loud. We couldn’t hear the reply.

  “Yes,” Dove said. “How are you, Mr. Roach? . . . Yes, sir, we’re all set and waiting for you ... I see . . . But what about the inspection? ... I see . . . Well, yes, of course . . .' When? . . . Yes, I can make it by then . . . of course . . . The Strake? Yes, I know where it is . . . Shall I ring your room? . . . Fine. See you then.”

  He switched off the flasher. Sat a moment in silence. Rose heavily and came over to the TV set. He looked directly at the screen.