Dean Ing - Silent Thunder

by Silent Thunder(lit)

  Nonetheless, he felt shame. Just one more little reminder of impotence on top of all the rest, he admitted to himself. My God, I haven't even made it with Lucille in over a month. Bowden wondered if the sex lives of the Secretaries of Defense and Commerce were suffering as well. Who would have believed that an outsider like that goddamned Walter Kalvin could usurp so much power, so fast, from the position of White House Chief of Staff?

  Let the river carry your fly, Martin suggested, as Bowden tried a sweeping backcast. The guide stood facing away from shore, his voice barely audible in the white noise of rushing water. That way we can attend to business.

  Bowden glanced around, read Martin's faint smile, and pretended he was still interested in fishing. What business is that? he asked.

  Without preamble: I'm your contact, sir. We're convinced that Undersecretary Parker's death was a deliberate hit, Martin said, seeming to study the river. We're not questioning whether Parker was killed by that mugger: he was. But we've done a careful profile on the mugger, and he'd been a suspect on two previous contract killings. He became an addict, but he wasn't the kind to take a deliberate overdose. Needle mark in his arm was a nasty one, too; maybe the guy was struggling. In any case, he can't give his end of it now that he's safely dead.

  Safe for whom? Richard Parker was a good man. He resigned as a protest on my behalf, Martin. If he wasn't safe, who is?

  Everyone at cabinet level, we think, so long as they don't step out of the game.

  Now, Bowden drew in slack line and glanced at Martin as he made another leisurely cast. You mean, if I should resign, I might wind up like poor Dick Parker?

  Any member of President Rand's cabinet who walks out complaining that he's a rubber stamp for Walter Kalvin could wind up on a slab, sir. I wouldn't tempt fate by trying it if I were you. Just hang in there. These things take time.

  Whose time is it taking? All I have from you people is a handshake and a promise, Bowden said.

  That handshake's been good enough for centuries, Martin replied. If it makes you feel any better, this little meeting is expensive for me; it's my last day as Cody Martin, and I'd got to where I liked it here. I was DIA for twelve years before I became a sacrificial lamb.

  The Defense Intelligence Agency was an arm of the Defense Department, therefore not under control of State or Treasury. Bowden made a test connection: You're telling me Secretary Canales runs your group?

  No, sir, said Martin; because he doesn't. Consider us privately funded, and please don't imagine that we're some kind of radical death squad. Where due process is concerned you can think of us as a life squad. We've all been professionals in one agency or another. But someone botched the job badly for Mr. Parker. We don't believe in coincidence. Somebody left Mr. Parker unprotected.

  You'd think, Bowden said, a man in my position would have some muscle of his own he could call on.

  No sir, beyond your Bureau of Intelligence and Research. What I think is, all your men but one could be yours, and you'd still be in trouble. Same with Defense, Treasury, and Interior. It's a bitch, he said, smiling as Bowden turned a vexed glance on him. That's why I'm here, sir.

  Bowden nodded and remembered to wave a thumbs-up toward the men on the river bank before he tried another cast. Why haven't you simply gone to the President about the problems with Walt Kalvin?

  Why haven't you, Mr. Secretary?

  Bowden's laugh was short and mirthless. Good point. We don't know what else Dick Parker was hinting about to the press, and he didn't see fit to confide in me with it. First damned thing Harry Rand would do is call good old Walt Kalvin in and ask him.

  Exactly. Both men glanced across the shallow river as another fisherman played a hefty trout. Better reel in and let me change flies, Mr. Secretary. It could look odd if you don't get a strike.

  By God, that's right, Bowden said. Why haven't I?

  Something I smeared on the fly, Martin said, and laughed as Bowden cursed. Figured we needed to concentrate on business.

  Martin selected a fat black-and-yellow fly from the assortment stuck into his shapeless hat as Bowden retrieved the end of his line. This McGinty should get you some action, sir.

  So far I haven't heard what other kind of action I can expect, Bowden said.

  You may not believe this, sir, but we really do believe in the system. I was told to ask you for a decision. Because of Mr. Parker, it's your decision-and whatever you say, believe me, we will do.

  That smacks of power I'm not sure I want, but ask away, Bowden said, holding a scarlet and black Royal Coachman fly that seemed suspiciously oily and, even after it's dunking, exuded an unpleasant musk.

  Mr. Parker was a computer hacker; a hobby of his, said Martin, running the loop of the new fly onto mono-filament leader. If he had anything on Kalvin that was important enough to get him offed, he just might have put it into his private disk files.

  Surely they've been collected, Bowden exclaimed.

  Not from his girlfriend's apartment.

  Bowden stared. Dick Parker was a model husband! We had him checked six ways from Saturday, Martin, and he wasn't into hanky-panky.

  He was into an old classmate, is what he was into, Martin said, releasing the McGinty as if he expected it to fly away of its own volition. Good friend of long standing; she just didn't remain standing when he visited her apartment. Actually, he sometimes went there without her, alone; that's why we thought the place might be worth a subtle toss.

  Bowden made a cast, let out more line; cast again. Well, I hate to say it, but if you can find any of Dick Parker's loose files, go ahead. Just try to do it legally.

  We've already copied everything, sir. That wasn't the decision. The decision will come if and when we do find something Mr. Parker hid away on disk files. We have computer hackers, too.

  Bowden thought he felt the faintest hint of resistance on his line before the sudden shock, almost electric, of pure energy down sixty feet of fishing line. He set the hook and saw the rocketing response as a sliver of light danced into the air for one jump, then another, then a third, shedding a spray of droplets in dazzling bursts.

  Nice one, sir, Martin commented. The two agents stood in the distance, shading their eyes as they watched. Keep that line taut. Play him awhile and think this over: where do we take such information?

  For the next three minutes, Secretary of State Kenneth Bowden fought a rainbow the length of his forearm and loved every second of it. Then: Reel in, he's making a run toward us, Martin exclaimed, Bowden hurrying to comply but too late.

  Damn; lost him, Bowden said, flicking the line, both men staring at the bright bumblebee shape still attached to the leader. He cast again. I'd like to tell you to bring the information to me, Martin, but that would put me into an ethical bind.

  Depending on the kind of information, sir, it could put you into a casket. We just don't know yet. But I don't think anyone would put out a contract on a major newspaper, Martin said.

  Bowden chewed his lip. Mm-hmm. Just let the media blast it out. Well, Thomas Jefferson told us the press was more important to us than government. But Jefferson never heard of X-rated holovision. He might have a different opinion today. At that moment his flyrod bowed. A moment later, a second fish cleared the river's surface.

  It's your decision we need, sir, said Martin. Then, as he watched, You've got a showboater there, he observed as the trout leaped again.

  The fish was somewhat smaller than the first, but a fine specimen. Martin netted it deftly and let Bowden admire his catch. Not supposed to keep him, but I won't tell, Martin grinned. How about it, Mr. Secretary?

  Let him go, Bowden said, his tone changing as he went on, We need something that still runs loose in this country besides Walter Kalvin. That goes for media people, too; and I can think of one who's like that rainbow there. Something of a showboater, fun to watch and far from tame. His smile challenged Martin to guess.

  The 'Nightline' crew? Martin took his time removing the McGinty's barb as t
he trout gulped helplessly.

  Too responsible. Bowden laughed at Martin's expression. They'd spend a lot of time checking things out, Martin. We need someone with a track record for letting it all hang out. I was thinking of Alan Ramsay.

  The man who had been Cody Martin, and before that another identity, and after this another still, placed sixteen inches of rainbow trout into the Yellowstone River with the care of a doting parent. That hotshot on NBN with the lopsided nose; I know the one you mean, sir. We need someone with high credibility who'd chase a Yellowstone grizzly with a willow switch. Does he have a family?

  Divorced, I believe, said Bowden. He surely takes a bachelor's chances with his career. Yes, the more I think about it, the more I'm certain. Your man is Alan Ramsay.

  THREE

  Alan Ramsay shouldered his way through the front door of his Hyattsville apartment on a muggy Thursday evening carrying two armloads of groceries, a mouthful of keycards, a handful of personal mail, and a letter bomb in a manila envelope. The envelope contained no percussion snapper or thin sheet of hexyl explosive; only words that were to detonate Ramsay's life into smouldering fragments.

  He made coffee in his usual manner, the way he'd learned in the jock dorm back in Lincoln, Nebraska, twenty years ago. Right arm snakes out to the dregs container while left hand twists the faucet handle; lean to the left and haul in a fresh dollop of coffee grounds while the right hand raps the container to dump the old dregs; quick double-handed rinse of the container, three seconds max, then cross arms. Ladle fresh grounds with right hand while left sweeps Pyrex pot under faucet. A handball champ named Jacque Flory had coached him in the move that installed fresh grounds and hit the percolator switch while the pot filled. Flory had owned the Cornhusker record for coffee setup: thirty-seven seconds flat.

  Ramsay whisked the pot across, poured its water into the machine, set the empty pot in place, wiped his hands on his video-blue shirtfront, and consulted the digital readout on Mister Coffee: almost fifty seconds. Hell, he was getting slower every year. The process still delighted his daughter, Laurie, on nights the kid spent with him. Daddy's trick, she called it. Kathleen had called it macho; claimed it was typical of the million little acts that abraded a marriage to shreds. Alan Ramsay called it second-rate because he would never beat Flory's record.

  The truth was that Ramsay had always been driven by self-doubt, the kind of pitiless internal criticism that can drive a man to perform beyond all reason-and then to conclude that he should have done better. If Kathleen left him, then it had to be his fault. If his three-times-a-week calisthenics made him capable of seventy pushups, why, then he had to work up to eighty-five and inflamed tendons. If his craggy good looks and humming vitality made him a popular NBN face on the Washington beat, he promptly began to worry that his value was only cosmetic. And to dig a little harder for a story; keep asking the next question; keep wondering if the answers made sense. NBN had discovered that when Alan Ramsay wondered out loud, from scripts he wrote unaided, thoughtful viewers loved it. Those commentaries were not news, but not quite editorials either. NBN identified them as pages from 'The Ramsay File' and did not worry too much about precisely what category they fitted. They were popular, and that was enough. So long as Ramsay retained his appeal as a thoughtful gadfly, network nabobs could bask in reflected ethics and take Ramsay's cachet to the bank. They paid Ramsay well, though not exorbitantly, and wisely avoided reining him in too much.

  He laid the mail out on his kitchen table as if dealing a hand of solitaire, then shoved the bills aside. One evening a week, he devoted an hour to such stuff; and thank God, his influx of forwarded fan mail had nearly ceased two weeks after that 'True Believers' commentary of his on NBN affiliate stations. The downside of feeling your commitment, he had learned, was the impulse to read fan mail and, sometimes, to spend time responding. At age forty-one, Ramsay was starting to count the ticks of life's clock.

  While stuffing his refrigerator with groceries-including sticks of string cheese for Laurie and soy Cheddar for himself-he made quick guesses about the personal mail. One piece, in a manila, had been forwarded from the Overseas Press Club. That happened perhaps three times a year and usually came from someone with savvy who wanted to avoid the vagaries of a network's internal mail system. Ramsay opened the manila with the short, dull blade of the mail-slitter in his money clip. Kathleen had been leery of weapon-like gadgets, and he'd let this one stay dull, as if he expected Kathleen to return.

  Wheels within wheels. The letter inside bore a Baltimore postmark and contained a note on the elegant buff stationery of one Matthew Alden, attorney, and still another envelope with 'Alan Ramsay, NBN' scrawled across it by someone in a terrible hurry.

  Alden's cover note was brief. Dear Mr. Ramsay: I am forwarding the enclosure by request of an acquaintance of long standing whom I shall call Cody Martin. Evidently his letter is his response to your recent video commentary on the influx of so-called 'True Believers' in the new Rand Administration (congratulations, by the way; I saw it). Beyond this, I know nothing of the contents. Mr. Martin made it harrowingly clear that I must not read his letter.

  He also hinted that you might doubt his bona fides. I can attest to his steadiness, his courage as a witness in a string of federal prosecutions some years ago, and his sense of commitment to his country. 'Cody Martin'-his most recent name-was long active in the intelligence community, and his titles changed irregularly. Make what you will of that. I doubt that I ever knew, or ever will know, his real name. In the present matter his concern seemed unusually acute. He is not a man who strains at trifles. Sincerely, Matthew L. Alden.

  Ramsay tapped the edge of the envelope against his teeth, fighting the urge to discard it, wondering whether Alden was a real person and, if so, whether he was the dupe of some subtle loony. Washington had more of those per acre than any asylum. Then he sighed and slit the little envelope and unfolded the sheet of paper, with its single spacing on both sides.

  Two minutes later, Ramsay dropped the page and vented an almost silent whistle as he stared at the wall above his microwave oven. Then he resumed reading. He then reread the whole thing slowly while sleet ran along his spine. The paper accentuated the slight tremor of his hands.

  At least one assertion, Ramsay had heard as non-news, the kind of fact you edited out unless it became important enough to warrant the ruin of a dead man's reputation. The now-deceased Richard Parker had frequented a woman's Bethesda apartment, motive unknown but presumably not for prayer meetings. That corroboration made it possible for Ramsay to half-believe in an Austrian woman who had, for a price, delivered a copy of her father's recently discovered diary to a State Department aide to Undersecretary Parker. Innsbruck meant little more than skiing to Ramsay, and the name 'Dieter Mainz' meant nothing at all. As the police liked to say, at least it listened; it seemed plausible.

  It was the body of the letter that became so wildly implausible that Alan Ramsay could almost see H O A X between the lines. And yet- Walt Kalvin, the incisive chief of Rand's White House staff, had not been born an American, so under the Constitution he could never run for President. He could, however, help groom a Missouri preacher named Harrison Rand for a senatorial slot and, later, for the race to the White House.

  Ramsay also had to admit that there had been scuttlebutt to the effect that Kalvin had been offered a cabinet position. Why had he refused? According to the files of Richard Parker, Kalvin did not want to undergo the kind of scrutiny Congress could bring to bear if he were President Rand's choice for, say, Secretary of State or Interior. In short, Congress could have smirched Kalvin's image. But Congress had no such power over Rand's choice of his Chief of Staff-which was increasingly a crucial position in the White House. Ramsay's 'True Believer' commentary had touched on the dangers of zealots in government, and the zeal with which Kalvin attacked his job. In passing, Ramsay had observed that Walter Kalvin, a zealot without a cabinet position, was becoming Secretary of Everything in the Rand administr
ation.

  He wouldn't have to step down when the President does, either, Ramsay murmured aloud. No Senate confirmations, no votes to worry about. If succeeding presidents wanted him, Kalvin could hover over the Oval Office as long as he lives. But he'd have to have the devil's own charisma for that. More than Rand himself. Ramsay looked down at the page, not really seeing the print; realizing that if there was any truth to this tale, Walter Kalvin already had the devil's own charisma in something called Donnersprache. Maybe that was the source of Rand's personal magnetism, too.

  If this Mainz diary could be believed-if indeed a Dieter Mainz had ever existed!-it was possible to add the kind of vibrato and timbre to a voice that brought overwhelming credibility to the speaker. Ramsay cudgeled his memory and came up with two names from Cornhusker rhetoric classes. George Whitefield; William Jennings Bryan. And another which he had heard on old sound tracks: Adolf Hitler. Who was it-yes, randy old Ben Franklin had written about Whitefield, a circuit preacher of modest intellect but with such compelling emotional impact in his voice that most listeners turned out their pockets on the spot- hypnotized, set afire with zeal, utterly convinced of Whitefield's message. Other orators had specifically mentioned their envy of the Whitefield tremolo.