And when Kalvin chose to enable those circuits again, then President Harrison Rand's mighty voice flowed through artificial channels to emerge with rhythms and cadences and resonant tones of self-assurance that most. listeners found irresistible. And all he knows is, whenever he deviates from my script, his results are poor. That's powerful reinforcement to a man who wants to be loved, thought Kalvin. Still holding the wireless mike under his arm, Kalvin tucked the Presidential tie in, nodded at his handiwork-all three-piece-suited, two hundred and thirty pounds of it-and said, You're letter-perfect on your speech?
You know I'm a quick study, Walt. Quit worrying, you just make sure that bunch of congressmen is ready for their minds to be changed.
I checked the viewport; Showers got them seated a couple of minutes ago, Kalvin replied, and withdrew the wand from his armpit, handing it to the President. Don't forget your mike.
Rand took it, a device longer than most cordless mikes with a faint patina of use on its knurling from Presidential palms after all this time. Look, I don't need this thing for forty or fifty people, he said. I know folks kid me about my old-fashioned delivery. Might not hurt to modernize my image a little.
It would ruin you, Kalvin said, understating the truth. Anyhow, you need amplifiers in a room that size.
So why not use a smaller room?
Because then you couldn't use your own special style. Peripatetic, remember?
Walkin' around while you talk. Aristotle. Sure I remember, but if I didn't do it, I wouldn't have to use this thing, he said, shaking the microphone like a party noisemaker.
Please don't do that, Kalvin said quickly, reaching out to the wand. You could bang it against something. Wouldn't want to damage your lucky mike.
Your lucky mike,'' Rand corrected. You're the one who got all pale and sweaty that time in Atlanta when I-
My lucky mike, then. Kalvin had invented that explanation years before after his own nervous near-collapse when Rand, speaking live at a Georgia fundraiser, mislaid the device that had taken Kalvin years to develop from its ancient German prototype. They had found it in the pocket of a janitor, an hour later. Humor me, Harry. It's part of you by now and we don't want to change a winning combination.
They began to walk to the reinforced doors, a staffer opening a door smartly, getting a nod from the President. As the two men walked down the hall toward the theatre, Rand tucked the wand into an inside coat pocket sewn especially for this use. How many representatives you think will change their minds from this little chitchat, Walt?
Never possible to say exactly; they're a cynical lot, but you could swing half of this group, maybe twenty, if you do it like this in a controlled situation.
More than one-on-one by phone?
Kalvin knew that the magic of Donnersprache depended on excellent fidelity, and you could not depend on the fidelity of someone else's telephone receiver. It often worked, but you could not depend on it working well enough, often enough. Trust me, Harry; this is better. Brings out the old charisma, he said, patting the President's arm, opening the door for his usual informal, bigger-than-life entrance.
Walter Kalvin watched the reaction of forty congressional representatives, each summoned because he opposed the new Federal Media Council, each beginning to slip beneath the spell of the moment, each impressed with his own importance, having been summoned to such a friendly confrontation by the President of the United States. A position of highly visible power, Kalvin knew, carried its own magic.
No one noticed when Walter Kalvin sat down, hands jammed in pockets, in a last-row seat. That was the way Kalvin liked it. He toyed with the memocomp in his righthand pocket, paying close attention to Harry Rand some of the time but to forty congressmen most of the time. Harry was right, Kalvin thought, he was as quick to learn his lines as most professional actors. It would not be necessary to press the special buttons that could remotely enable or disable the mike's Donnersprache circuits, at least not until after the sermon. Actually, the only times Kalvin needed to disable those circuits was when Harry Rand took it on himself to cajole or bluster his way into a position that put him in opposition to Kalvin himself. When that happened, the circuits got disabled.
And so did President Harrison Rand's credibility, without the invisible, silent thunder of Donnersprache.
Kalvin watched and listened as Harry Rand strode across the slender raised stage, thinking that the man had never been in better form. Videotapes of the audience response would tell him more later. And of course, there would be another such meeting with an assortment of the opposing members of the Senate. It was all going according to plan, Kalvin decided. They might not have to eliminate anybody else, not even that guy Ramsay.
At least, not until after the Federal Media Council became reality. Then they could ice the bastard, him and anybody else they chose, because even if a killing went wrong, the screwup wouldn't be a problem unless it became news. And nothing would be news if Walter Kalvin, chairman of that council, said it must not be news.
NINE
The abuses of Laurie Ramsay were many, though most were no worse than a slap. It was the sexual abuse that would leave invisible scars. The worst part of it, Laurie found, was the cloying, sickening pleasure she felt for brief moments in Johnnie's hands. Forced to rely on her own strengths far more than ever before-even at summer camp-the girl made great use of subtlety.
Johnnie kept treating her like a little kid? Very well, Laurie would take tiny revenges by acting the part. In the phrase of Laurie's school chums: sandbag the bitch. Cold water was the only amenity of the kitchen and bathroom, and Laurie's chores included dishes. Spilling detergent, knocking the propane stove into the sink, and clumsiness to the point of idiocy became Laurie's tricks. She quickly learned that she had no hope of moving the heavy drapes away from the clerestory windows, even in the kitchen: the process was noisy and Johnnie's hearing was good. The sounds from outside included birds and occasional aircraft, but no car traffic. Though Laurie was never permitted to climb up and glance out, Johnnie pulled the drapes aside for natural light during the days, performed indifferently as cook, and meted out swift punishment for 'accidents.'
Johnnie's weapons were open-handed slaps and viselike pinches. Two things seemed to provoke Johnnie to attack the girl sexually, and Laurie soon learned the ugly pattern. One thing was any behavior that enraged the woman enough to spank. The other was binding Laurie's wrists, ankles, and mouth with adhesive tape prior to Johnnie's nightly disappearances. When Johnnie returned, she seemed tempted by Laurie's helplessness. And always, after the despised caresses, Johnnie would reward herself with tequila. The woman had brought two quarts of the stuff and gulped it straight from the bottle.
Laurie came to think of sex as horrid punishment, but in analyzing her captivity she also found real wisdom. It was clear that Johnnie had a child's ethic: full attention to what was due to her, little attention to what was due from her. If Laurie could be forced to do every chore, and to make no demands while Johnnie filled her days with TV and magazines, then Johnnie would not fill Laurie's days with so much anguish.
And one more thing entered Laurie's thoughts: weapons. If anything convertible to a weapon was bad, then Johnnie's hands should be confiscated. Laurie wished she could bring a bottle of tequila down on her captor's skull-which proved that Laurie's hands were potentially 'bad' too. And wasn't Laurie's deliberate clumsiness really a weapon? It was, in fact, Laurie's only weapon. Laurie began to wish she had a better one, something with which to defend herself against power both illegal and immoral.
Laurie had begun to question the tenets of pacifism. And to consider alternatives, and then to busy herself with empty food containers which, in camp, she'd learned to make into a tea set.
Johnnie saw her small captive making 'cake' from fireplace ash, and brewing 'tea' in metal cans, and Johnnie returned to her magazines with a shrug. Let the little bastard play childish games, she seemed to think, so long as she was obedient and neat about
it. Johnnie did not seem to care that, for the silent, intent Laurie, it was more than a game.
TEN
For Ramsay, the first few days of Laurie's captivity became a challenge to sanity. He canceled the appointment with Magnuson, fully aware that he was choosing Laurie over the future of his country. He found anodyne in his work, driving himself in solemn intensity, telling himself that 'they' would return Laurie in a month-and not believing it.
Incredibly, not even the scrofulous tabloid press penetrated the cone of silence around the death of Kathleen Ramsay, which was duly announced by Lieutenant Corwin as suffered in her Georgetown home during a break-in attempt. Aside from a few of Kathleen's friends who had never liked Ramsay and did not intend to start now, Ramsay noted that Corwin and two of his men were virtually the only others to attend Kathleen's funeral. What's really galling, Ramsay said to Corwin later, as they walked between rows of headstones, is that she was bright, useful, a good mother. And she's been put away without a ripple of suspicion anywhere.
Put it in plain terms, Ramsay: you mean she's gone, and her murderers are running loose, Corwin corrected. That's what happens when the people who could help us, won't.
Sure; I talk to you, and they kill Laurie by inches. Strain made his voice tight, almost shrill. She calls me every night, Corwin, did you know that?
Corwin knew. Did Ramsay know that the calls came from different directions? Arlington, Silver Spring, Cheverly. Audio analysis suggested that Laurie's messages were first sent from some single location as scrambled transmissions over ordinary phone lines, to telephone booths spaced around the Washington area. Then someone would call Ramsay and play the tape. The calls were never long enough for police to fix the exact location.
All the earmarks of very, very organized crime, Corwin said. Maybe politically organized. If you said the right things, Mr. Ramsay, I could bring in the Feds. But I won't force you.
If Corwin was part of it, he was role-playing and the hell with him. If he wasn't, maybe he could be pushed back to arm's length. Ramsay asked, What if it's some lunatic group of the Feds themselves?
After a moment: If-mind you, that's an 'if I have seen only rarely in seventeen years-but if it were, I could accidentally drop you and your daughter into deep shit. But I don't like this, either. He jerked a thumb back toward Kathleen's grave.
I have to protect Laurie. She's all I have, now, said Ramsay. Corwin's sigh and shrug implied understanding, and Ramsay's suspicions of the man dropped a notch. The rest of that day, Alan Ramsay debated himself over courses of action, and ended by choosing inaction.
Each night, Ramsay waited with Pam Garza for what had become both low and high points of his day: Laurie's call. On Thursday, perhaps intending to frighten him, his enemies made a serious mistake: they did not make that call. He slept little that night, and on Friday morning he gave every appearance of settling down, resuming business as usual, accepting the facts. But while lugging his video equipment across town, he made the call he should have made earlier.
He'd intended to send another may-day to Matthew Alden. But Alden's answering service clicked to an intercept an instant after Ramsay began to talk.
The voice was not Alden's. Take down this number and call from public booths until you get an answer. The number had a local prefix with a three-zero-one area code. Bethesda? He punched the number into his memocomp and decided to keep his interview appointment before making the next call. Five minutes after a deadly dull interview for NBN, he found another phone booth as though at random, blood pounding in his ears.
Two rings. Then a man's voice, a drawl more West than South. Mr. R., modern gadgets are so good they can be tipped off by a name or a key word, and they focus on that call.
I know that, but-
The voice went on, interrupting him. Recorded. Think very carefully before you speak and avoid key words or names, especially your own. If I like your replies to the following questions, stay on the line. Pause. Who introduced you last night on the defense appropriations piece; and what kind of tires did you buy for your little Chevy?
Instantly he said, Ynga Lindermann gave my lead-in, and it's not a Chevy as you probably know, it's a Genie with wide Pirellis.
A click, and now the voice was live, the same measured gravelly baritone on the recording. Good enough, Mr. R., I was wondering if you had the smarts to call Mr. A. again. I see you did.
I hope I haven't put him in the same bind I'm in, Ramsay replied.
Not as long as you keep calling from different anonymous places. Your home phone is bugged two ways, conventionally by Metro Police and by less friendly people using small transmitters. Your office lines aren't secure either. You must continue to use a different booth each time you call me. And for the moment, you must talk as if you were wearing a bug on your clothes or even in your hair-because you very well may be. Their equipment isn't good enough to hear through your earpiece, though. Do you understand?
Very handy for you, he said with anger he hoped sounded genuine. If he were bugged personally, they would only be hearing his end of the conversation. NBN has deadlines, you know. So how am I supposed to check your side of the issue?
A snort that could have been amusement. Very quick, Mr. R. As for my side of the issue, consider me a very biased observer. Biased in your favor-and you'll just have to take a chance on us. Think about this: I alerted you to the problem with a letter. I've got a new name-again, the man sighed affably in his first show of human frailty. The other side would never offer you any help, even false hope, because they want you hopeless and docile. And we don't.
That makes sense. But what can you offer?
First thing, we get you deloused, the man said briskly.
Why d'you say I'm, ah, lousy? But he felt like scratching himself all over. Even the idea of an electronic bug made him feel defiled, somehow.
Just a hunch; quit talking and listen. Before your next call, buy a Mantis, it's a sophisticated bug-catcher from CCI. Branches in Manhattan and Washington. Use cash, not credit card; and even if someone you know has one, don't borrow one, you could be borrowing trouble. Don't tell anyone, not even your best girl, that you have it. Okay?
Yeah, I've heard of the firm.
The people you're up against can afford to bug every pair of skivvies you own. Bugs may look like fuzzy weed seeds. They stick to things. You can wash them out of body hair so they get to listen to the plumbing. Launder them from clothes the same way without raising suspicion. If you find one elsewhere, let it alone. They pick up sounds about as well as your ears do. Still follow me?
I think so, but how do I use the hardware?
Wear it like a wristwatch; it is one, for that matter. But it pokes you when it gets near an active device, so you can even spot a video bug and it won't know you've tumbled unless you do something stupid like taking the Mantis off your wrist and waving it like a flashlight. And I'm afraid we've talked long enough.
Ramsay was giddy from all the cloak-and-dagger orientation, and this man had given him no real promise of help. No, wait, dammit. I don't want to, uh, interview those people. I might be seen. Why can't you provide the evidence yourself?
When your mail is monitored? Nope; bad idea. But you have a point. After the briefest of pauses, as if to himself: Sure, why not? If this one goes down the wrong way, we won't be using drops anymore. Call again. Give me ten minutes. And the line was suddenly dead.
Ramsay walked out of that booth feeling an almost feverish anticipation, reminding himself not to smile or whistle because it might register on some long lens or tape recorder. Ten minutes later, he had found another booth. It's me again. You remember what I wanted?
Yep. You'll find joy in the Rexall on Connecticut Ave, a few blocks from where you work. Early this evening, you'll decide your watch is on the blink. Within ten minutes after seven p.m., go into the Rexall. Ask the clerk, not the pharmacist and not the cashier but the clerk, for a Timex. Pay him, put it on, and leave. For God's sake don't ask him
to demonstrate it, he wouldn't anyhow. Anyway, I suspect this'll be one of your better bargains, pal. But patriotism is the bargain we get.
The truth is, I'm starting to lose that.
Bullshit. You called this number.
For selfish reasons, Ramsay said, self-disgust flavoring his words.
I think I know that reason. People in law enforcement sometimes talk with old friends, the man said. Well, you can play someone else's game, or you can keep me advised. If you don't call within twenty-four hours we'll take it as a turndown, and no hard feelings.
Ramsay thanked him and replaced the receiver, striding out to Independence Avenue feeling as though he should sprint. The man had made no promises but by God, he seemed to be part of something carefully organized. Maybe that, he decided, was what put the vinegar back in him: the man was a total stranger, but he represented hope. Ramsay saw no gleam of it in any other direction.
Dean Ing - Silent Thunder Page 9